The Pianist

I have been watching him for awhile now, from a shadowy corner of the auditorium. There is no danger of him noticing me. He is completely absorbed by the immediacy of expression. His hands touch the keys and there it is: his soul professed in sound. I envy him. I nearly cry, because I wish I could let it all out as he does. He sways. His eyes are half shut. He transports himself. I don't know to where. Oblivion perhaps. The dissolution of self into sound. He keeps going and going. Hands roaming across the keys with the dexterity of spiders. He exhales music with unbearable perfection. I inhale perfection that isn't mine. I am tortured. Envy. Envy. From the inner primordial chaos he can produce an immeasurable expanse of penetrating, beatific sound. And I, barely one clear note that will ring with equal precision. Paralysis. My mind is numb. I think I am mesmerized.