Pride’s Lament

By Morgan Smith

He clenches his fingers, readying his hands above the piano as he prepares to flow into his song. There are invisible strings attached to each individual digit, like a puppeteer was controlling his movements with a subtle jerk. He feels his eyes shut, allowing himself to envision the keys in front of him. He can almost see the fallboard, a faded black, yet catching the light with a glint of its smoothened paint. It had years upon it from the constant use of prior pianists before him. 

The stage is his display, where he stood alone, with nothing but the set eyes of old, ugly viewers upon him, criticizing and observant of his skill he had years to hone. His hand strays across the black and white of the keys, and he takes a long, drawn out breath. The crowd was nothing but a fragment of his mind. He can not allow something so insignificant to stifle his wonderful playing. These weary, old stares do not reflect the youth of his face. Tonight, he will play a haunting nocturne that weaves the tale of the young and the old, revealing the chilling chasms that separate them. 

After a moment of reflection, he begins to play, his fingertips dancing over the keys. The music resonates with the listener’s emotion, reaching deep into their subconscious as he immerses himself into its depths. The pianist’s brows are furrowed with irritation; his focus is intense, yet his passion seems to wane. To the crowd, the song feels like a steady river, carrying them along its currents with the wind of the sound, the piano leading them to paradise. But to his ears, self-doubt twists and falters within each note, creating a discordant echo of his insecurities. The eyes of the elderly observers pierce into his soul like sharp knives. His fear of becoming as vile as they are infuses into his playing with tension, and he stares back at those relentless eyes, his jaw tightening. 

This young talent fears the ultimate fate of growing weary and old, frail and dependent, with lips curled in sin. He sees them for what they are: the embodiment of his fears—wrinkled with transgressions, losing their allure as life takes its toll. With each passing moment, the pianist sinks deeper into the shadows of self doubt. He can feel their scrutiny, their silent judgment hanging in the air, heavy and suffocating. He hates it; he hates this song and the emotion it evokes, for it stems from the crowd and taints his piece. What was once a beautiful creation--a masterpiece in the making--has now been aged by those who listen to it. Not a single person can connect with his work because they are from a different time. He played for his own gratification, a way to reassure himself, as certain music always had. But now, that has been ruined. 

He realizes that this song is for them, as it approaches its end. His music wanes into something more empathetic, the anger that fueled his feverish playing gradually subsiding. His arms slow, finger testing the keys delicately, leaving the final note hanging in the air. He scowls as the crowd erupts into applause, his hair clinging to his damp forehead as he rises from his seat and steps forward to the front of the stage. They are still there--the old ones--blinding his view, rows upon rows in the theater. 

Beauty is a paradox, one that has been lost on the old. All he can do is force a tense smile, bowing with his arms folded across his chest, pretending it has been an honor to play for them tonight.