Music and I are engaged in a love hate relationship. The piano is my soul mate, my confidante, when I am burdened by feelings of sadness, when I have no one to turn to, the piano is where I go to let it all out. On those 88 keys, I pour out my soul. On those 88 keys do I find valleys and hills, rolling thunders and swirling waters. When the rolling waves ceased to clash upon the shingles, and the rain cease their relentless beating, I play myself a flowing river trickling upon pebbles.
And yet, I am no good a pianist, though I want to be. My music could not swoon a lady nor will she be woed, for the reality is, it may be music in my ears, it is nothing grandeur for others to hear. I play for my own pleasure, and what a curse it is, for I hear more in my head than what my fingers can consolidate. I pretend to play, but a master may laugh at my imcompetence. Only 88 keys, and yet I am not able to cover it. Alas, I will play in the loneliest of night, when no one is there to listen.
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