I believe in my music. I believe in my piano.
I play piano for hours, sitting perched on my bench, my throne—controlling the kingdom that is my music. Nothing bothers me. Nothing threatens my fortress. I direct it all, with every shift of a finger and every flick of a thumb. The melody courses at my whim; it ebbs at my command and flows at my will. This is my world. Any slip-up, any disruption is cast aside and quickly forgotten. Thoughts don’t linger. My cares pass away, and my worries disappear with them. Only a single entity remains: bliss. It’s an unadulterated peace that’s impossible to mar. A vastly uninhabited dimension with me at the center.
My piano is my reprieve. It’s an escape from a hectic life that threatens my well-being and my sanity. People often find this reprieve in golf, sleep, television. Mine is the sound that is created as I press a key or when I play a chord. I don’t know my major and minor scales, and I can’t remember the difference between crescendo and diminuendo. I learned these once, but they have been long forgotten. Now, I just play piano, without structure or theory. Just to get lost in the music, to create poetry. Not that of words and phrases but of melodies and harmonies.
It’s not hard for me to sit down to play a song and look up to see that an hour has passed. In fact, it’s common. I play the repertoire of songs stored in my head over and over, occasionally adding a new piece, without ever growing tired or discontent. Life doesn’t touch me when I sit at my piano. It’s an asylum that is forever reliable and impenetrable. All control falls into my hands, and I’m dependent upon nothing but the keys under my hands and the pedal beneath my foot.
I believe in the power of the music I create. Others might not recognize this as I do, but that has no meaning to me. It gives me the ability to fall into a world that is all my own and that is influenced by no outside forces. It’s the music that pulses and swells from my belief. It’s my piano. My kingdom.