You’re sitting at the piano. Because Mom told you that you had to practice. But you hate it, because you’ve had a horrible day and all you want to do is to go angrily pound your yellow and purple football into a wall. You want the rhythmic thumping of the ball, the thunderclap it makes when it comes in contact with the stone barrier.
But you’re stuck with this.
This melodious, annoyingly beautiful instrument that doesn’t benefit your current mood in the slightest.
The ivory keys seem to mock your vexation and as you lay your fingers out, and you feel a giant ball of frustration build up in yourself, growing larger and stronger the longer you stare at those idiotic, blank, pale keys.
A growl emerges from your tight chest and you glare at the jet-black and bone-white rectangles. You want to play? Fine, let’s play. You take the first song in your head, one that is supposed to be played softly and elegantly. Screw you. Mentally you snarl at the piano, and your fingers dip as you start to play the first keys.
The opening sounds forced, one half of yourself wanting to rampage all over the surface of the instrument, the other reigning you in and forcing yourself to a softer, more appropriate tone. Resentment for the latter part fills you up and you break free of its pull, adding unnecessary crescendo to the piece as you speed it up.
You reach the middle of the partition, the part that is supposed to be the quietest. But your emotions make you bang at the keys with even more fervor than before, the rage pulsating out the piano, pedal filling the room with cacophonous melodies as your fingers start to tingle and your body soon follows. And somewhere, deep in the recesses of your mind, you register the fact that the rise in pitch and tempo sounds nice.
Slowly, slowly, your sharp, jarring notes lose their anger, and though you still play loudly, the burning fury has thawed and started to melt away. You can’t maintain it for too long, and the tune changes to something less bitter, with a hint of sweetness as an aftertaste.
You start to finish up the piece, and you feel worn out. Like all your previous irritation had lost its hold on you. With only two lines left your shoulders droop, and you notice that you were leaning towards the piano the entire time.
One more line to go and the hardness in your fingers has dissipated, leaving your hands to smoothly slide and switch places, moving to the right of the piano as you finish on one last high note, the purity of it resonating louder in your mind than in the room.
Barely five minutes have passed since you’ve started playing. Barely five minutes have elapsed and already you feel calmness start to seep its way into you. All it took was five minutes for you to be alright again. As you mull over the thought, your hands seem to move at their own accord, spreading themselves on the keys again. Ready to play something else.