I stand there, solo, pale as a soldier in defeat, though I feel as big as the world. But I’m choking with the loneliness I breathe in the air. I see a part of me close by, but I fear embracing it so as not to give loneliness all the space there is, and die in my own worthlessness, after being on top of the world.
Before me, I see that I’m on a stage in a theatre where no one is watching. And my keys, I find no one to touch them anyway. So I remain there, hoping that a strong wave of wind would move my keys, or my pedals, and a sound would break out of me and people would wish they’d been the audience in the hall, whose audience is sheer emptiness.
But I’ve lived in this old, desolate building for so long I can’t remember how people looked or how it felt to have fingers touch my soul or feet push passionately against those magical pedals of mine.
I’ve been here for so long I’ve borne witness to the breaking and cracking of the walls, I’ve seen lights being shut forever, and I’ve seen the void and emptiness fill the room until there was but a crowd of nothingness.
I wish I had a span of my life instead of this excruciating immortality, because I, despite every death I’ve witnessed and every breath I’ve seen be taken away forever, still manage to bring out the life in me and stand still, not as a defeated soldier but as the last man standing, who awaits nothing but death, and the mysterious longing for the afterlife, the mortality.
I, whose keys have grown obsolete since God knows when, still with the eagerness to die, yearn for the last two hands that would play my death piece, so that I can die there knowing I left to the world the most abysmal music of loss, avenging for the loneliness it has put me through. To die with relief, embracing a solo trip to a new audience.
