Fiction, Story

A Piano Player's Soul

Contact Sheet

The keys slammed onto the strings, vibrating through the rooms. Filling them up with melody, with rhythm, with surprises. One moment in moll, the next in dur. And the piano player, the creator of this wonder, sat quietly at the piano. Not making a sound, but his body flowing to the rhythm of the music. His eyes closed, but beneath the lids tears running. Instead of running out his eyes, they ran out through his body, through his arms, and finally; dripping out of his fingers. Filling the melody in the room with his beauty, with his soul.
  That was what music was, the rhythm of the soul. That was why different songs, meant different things to different people. Some may like a beat for they have a beating heart, and search for an alike. And others may like the rhythm of classical where the rhythm takes their soul to a different place, to a different universe. Perhaps to a universe where anything is possible. A universe where he or she can explore the world, himself or herself, and life itself. And as his hand played the piano, flying over the keys at times and then gently stroking them at other times, people wandered through the room. The notice they gave was that given a doorknob; to only to be disturbed when deemed necessary.

  When the piano player was in the moment, in the a different universe, time did not matter. Time was but a variable among the thousands of others that scientists use to calculate our brains, our thought. But love, love can not be explained. Love is not a connection, love is not a person to person experience that anyone can project. Love is a feeling. It is a sense of fulfillment. A sense that one belongs, that this place, right here, is where I am suppose to be. For some it may be a person, and for some it may be more than one person. For some it may be the art of writing, of running, of playing the piano. Everyone has something they hold dear, and at that moment the world disappears; it vanished. The world doesn’t matter, time doesn’t matter. He steps into a different world, a world of flowers, of rain, of cold and heat. A world were all feelings are felt as ones. To put it simply; a place where soul is whole.

Viktor Aronsson

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Stockholm, Sweden

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