Ringtone of my soul

The clock was always ticking. Time became for me a reminder of my own incapability, unlike so many other people who see it as a commodity or even a privilege – how absurd!-, the seconds of my life are filled with various activities, each one part of my monotonous routine which I love so much, the sense of purpose that surges through me resembling liquid fire, bringing about an indescribable feeling of purpose.

I could hear the muffled sounds in the practice room ringing in my ears, a faint but persistent rhythm beneath the soaring melodies I played. I could feel it in the concert hall, a subtle pressure as I waited for my turn to demonstrate my musical prowess. Even at home, surrounded by sheet music, the clock was there, urging me to practice harder, play better, learn more and more and more to the point of madness, but oh dear, never have I tasted such delicious madness…

I am always in a rush. From one practice session to another, followed by my storming in and out of a library to enhance my knowledge right after the session ends, waiting for the next competition to be published in the “Le matin” with barely restrained energy.

I’d wake up early, practice for hours before college, attend lectures, rehearse with the orchestra, perform in recitals, and then spending the evening in my chamber, both the refuge of my thoughts and cage of my own ambitions. And it was all for them, my beloved parents. Their approval was the only validation I needed. Their praise was the only reward I sought. Without it, I was no more than a quadrille missing a couple.

The piano was my ticket to their affection. It was the one thing that I could do that impressed them, the one thing that earned me more than just dismissive words and glances that tried to mask their indifference, but to no avail. When I played, their eyes would light up, their faces would soften, and for a moment, my white tie didn’t feel so suffocating anymore and the mocking undertone of the voices that scream in my head seems to become inaudible.

But the pressure was immense. I had to be flawless, every performance had to be breathtaking. My parents’ love was at stake, the driving force of everything that I have been doing ever since I became conscious of my environment and my duty not to fall short of my dear mother and father’s expectations.

These thoughts are plaguing my mind as I’m walking down the pavement, a horse-drawn carriage being the only source of noise in the serene atmosphere created by the spider web of boulevards, elegant parks and avenues, towards the comfort of the mansion I am living in. I pushed open the sturdy wooden doors and entered, the heavy door of swinging shut behind me.

I shrugged off my coat with hurried movements and tossed it carelessly onto a nearby chair. A restless energy thrummed beneath my skin, a familiar counterpoint to the exhaustion that tugged at my shoulders, along with the feeling of being on pins and needles as I approached my piano. I settled onto the plush velvet bench, my fingers hovering over the keys for a moment before choosing a masterpiece of Massenet’s. I began to play but I was met with the same bizarre result: I pressed a middle C, and a jarring D flat echoed in the room. It wasn’t just out of tune; the notes themselves were…wrong. I have been living this nightmare for a few months now, the subtle or obvious shift in keys giving birth to an inner paranoia that drove me to look up my old manuals I used at study material when I was a mere child, to confirm that I’m still on the right path.

A wave of frustration washed over me, hot and suffocating. Moreover, as if to add insult to injury, this occurs exclusively when I am playing my own piano, never when I am on the grand stage of the opera. But what if, someday, it will happen? I will die of shame, I would hang myself the next moment… I shake my head, I don’t want to focus on those whispers in the back of my mind right now.

I pushed myself away from the piano, glancing at it as if burnt me. The beautiful instrument now seemed menacing, mocking me like the fiercest critic or cruelest parent, a piece of hell among mortals. How was this witchcraft possible? That’s utter nonsense, stories so exaggerated that not even kids, if they are brighter than average, would not believe. Or rather, that’s what I had been taught to reject, the idea of some unknown force taking over what I hold dear.

The music room, once a haven, now felt like a trap, the discordant notes a storm of imperfections that threatened to overwhelm me. (part 2 soon)