The Performance

I walked towards the piano with a mild stir in my heart. When I finally faced the audience, I gulped. The auditorium was barely filled, but the stage lights were still able to shed illumination on those at the front rows. I saw my best friend, Rainick, proudly beaming at me. I saw several of my high school friends, giving me the biggest round of applause they could muster. I saw Sr. Annunciata, giving me the most reassuring smile I’ve ever seen. I gave a bow and then sat down on the piano bench, my teeth clenched in anxiety, my fingers all jittery and aflutter. After a few seconds of gathering composure, I finally stepped on the dampers and played the first notes of Debussy’s “Valse Romantique”—totally subdued, like a nudging heartbeat before the lyrics of a love song set in.

And during those three and a half minutes, I was in heaven.

My playing filled the entire auditorium, despite the piece’s mellifluous nature. The melody—floating amidst the seemingly jesting homophonic accompaniment—was almost like a kundiman, arising from the depths of a love so strong that it was begging to be heard. It started off as a despondent whimper, with a sudden torrent of pent-up emotions at the middle. The piece eventually builds up towards a rapturous flourish, with bliss as immense as the chords that my hands stretch out to.

I may have hit some clunkers on several moments, but I quickly tried to regain stance each time. I cannot let a blunder ruin the entire performance. I closed my eyes, praying nobody noticed.

Following a massive rush of blood to the brain, I rapped the keys with all my reserves, ready to burst with all the mixed-up emotions that I felt for everyone who was there to witness my renaissance as a revitalized persona. Then, during that brief moment that eventually lead up to the climactic finish, I respired, anticipating the reaction of my audience, who, either by rapture or repugnance, remained attentively in their seats during my entire performance.

I froze in my position as I kept on clinging to that final chord. My fingers were begging me to keep still as they tried to savor each nanosecond they remained glued to the ivory keys. For a moment there, I almost gave in—never wanting to let go of the instrument that has just given me the happiest three and a half minutes of my life. It was wrong, I know, but it just felt so right.

But then, a crisp applause resonated across the auditorium. My heart leaped as the rhythmic palm slapping continued. I got back to my senses, drew my fingers from the piano keys, stood up, and took a long bow.

Right then and there, I knew what I really wanted.

“I was born to do this,” I told myself. I took one final look at the beaming faces of Rainick, my classmates, and Sr. Annunciata. Never have I been overwhelmed by such a feeling of fulfilment. I was on cloud eighteen… nay, on cloud thirty-six if I must. I never wanted to leave that stage. It was my haven. It was mine.

When I took that inescapable turn to the left to exit, however, the truth struck me like lightning with an intensity that shook my ground.

The bliss is ephemeral—this fantasy short-lived.

There is a reality I have to go back to.

Then I woke up. My being wept.