| A 38-year old pianist wearing a worn out suit. My day starts off at the bystreet in District 9, known as the street of music. Just loitering around aimlessly, knocking at the doors of underground stores, seeking for a job. However my reputation has already hit the bottom long ago in this very street. 'An abject musician who only knows to play by the rules of the music sheet.’ ‘A boring clown.’ 'A poor pianist who lacks any money, with no pull.' I know better than anyone else that this is the gruesome peak of my life. An exclusive pianist of a fancy restaurant, Person in charge of a recital at the social gatherings for the rich. Or arranging a private concert. This is all but an unreachable longing for me now.
A crummy, 40-square meter bar under the ground, full of all kinds of smoke. The scenery visualized by the flickering lightbulb's faint, scarlet light resembles a graveyard. A graveyard for the low lives such as I. A place where the scums such as incompetent fixers and the minor of a gang come together, to praise each other with foolish consolation.
In here I fix my eyes on the score, beating away black and white keys.
It was 14 years ago which I can’t recall vividly, that I began to play by dropping my head, unhindered by the surroundings. I first played at a bar when I missed my chance to be successful at the age of 24. Playing at a cheap pub came to me as an edge of a cliff, where I have nowhere to retreat to. As I start playing, the silence slowly covers the room, the customers turn their heads towards me admiring my performance and forming a single bond of sympathy ...is something I never expect as much. But I wanted my music to be respected a bit more than it is, whilst comforting their minds.
However when I look around the bar, I have to accept the fact that my music fits in here like a napkin, which is something you’d naturally see in a pub. It doesn’t matter if I’m not the pianist of this place. Anyone who can play by the score can be here as a prop. Just assorted there, where it’s suitable Like how napkins and vases should be on a table…
All these unnecessary contemplations happen more often these days. Three days of light, three days of darkness and a day of silence that wrapped around the city. Centering around that week, while playing busily I sink into the thoughts of the past and recall forgotten things at the same time.
Have I gained enough composure to introspect in the warmth, anxiety and silence, which doesn’t fit in with the city at all? My heart should’ve lost its capacity to let me think so deep, for it would’ve worn out too much already.
As always, I gently close my eyes
while moving away my fingers diligently,
in this crude bar of vulgar words and voices louder than a piano.
The one job that I can do is to hit the keys.
There were fools here and there who knew how to play exactly as the score they were given.
But most of them are in better places than I am.
I could only watch as the people who I once thought were insignificant
skyrocket upwards with the support from patrons.
Though envious, I didn’t resent.
I was confident that once my talent gained its rightful recognition,
I’d reach a higher place than any others who used cash and connections to get up.
But all that confidence was broken so fast it felt like a joke.
About a year after choosing my path to be a pianist.
I’ve heard someone say it’s a ‘boring performance.’
Even if it’s the only talent I had left, it all came to nothing compared to other’s talent.
Dare I call this a talent at all.
My eyes read the score slightly faster, and my hands were a bit quicker.
I just loved the sound coming from the instrument.
I didn’t know that it was a mediocre aptitude.
Deluding myself that I am gifted with a unique, artistic ability.
And I realized that
it wasn’t just wealthy parents or patrons that I lacked in these hands.
I wasn’t even gifted to begin with.
My performance wasn’t even mine.
It could be anyone’s, strictly playing by the rules of the sheet.
The performance where the player didn’t have to be me.
Yet, I couldn’t put my hand down from the keys for 25 years;
why is that?
It’s probably because I love piano.
And I’m still playing this instrument on my own,
which nobody will pay attention to.
My eyes open up with someone forcefully pulling on my shoulder.
A drunk bum talks to me with an infuriated face.
Telling me to move aside,
so he can play for his fellows who came along.
Even then my hands continue to tap the keys away.
They won’t stop until the song is complete.
This seat won’t be empty till then.
I will not yield.
This is the last place I stand. It’s been kept firmly as my spot with an abject pride of mine,
even when I knew I had no gift in me and people despised.
The shopkeeper warns me that I shouldn’t make a scene.
Threatening loudly that I’ll lose my job
if I don’t step aside.
I realize this again as I look up at them seated,
using my fingers assiduously to play:
My performance has always been flowing at the bottom.
It’s sinking as I look up in eternity.
My head rang all of a sudden.
My performance ended as the shopkeeper slapped me across the face.
I watched the jerk sitting in front of the piano,
as I sat at the table in the corner with a wet towel against my cheek.
The cramped up bar
is still filled with all kinds of crude chatter from the tables.
The man who, is in no way civil,
brags to his friends, spitting
as he sits on the piano stool.
It seems that he’d been playing it as a hobby.
Stroking my swollen cheek, I wondered if things would’ve been better
had I taken this as a mere hobby.
A luscious tune plays along.
This made me wonder if that was really the same cheap one I’ve been using until now.
Although the song is the same, the melody claws into the heart.
Despite all the noise in the bar, it sounded so very vivid.
And as all the other sound of the pub subsides,
the beautiful music is the only thing left.
Tears roll down.
Body shaking with the melody spearing through my mind,
it was all too beautiful and painful for me to keep the tears in.
As the melody reaches its climax, the small 40-square meter place that this place is,
turns into a warm, cozy place that nowhere else can dare to be.
This, is the true talent.
At that moment I vaulted out of my seat and headed straight for the piano.
And after pushing that son of a bitch aside with all my might,
I banged my head against the keys like a mad man.
Bang.
Snap.
Ding ding.
The piano’s sharp screech resonates.
Water runs down as my right eyeball digs into a black key.
I rubbed and grinded my head against the keys. The sheer white keys turn crimson red.
Then I twisted and snapped my left arm, crushing my left hand. Opened the mouth and rammed it into the corner of the piano.
Teeth are broken and dropping out, digging into the instrument.
Rubbing, smashing, and grinding the whole body.
A sound that has never been heard before oozes out of it.
I wasn’t upset when the customers ignored my performance.
I wasn’t upset when that jerk interrupted me.
I wasn’t upset when the shopkeeper wasn’t on my side. I wasn’t upset when my colleagues became successful
with the help of the patrons. I just wanted to live by playing piano, because I loved to.
This city won’t allow that. Nothing here goes well if you simply like to do it.
Where is my freedom to live as who I am?
Why can’t I leave the keyboard? Why must my heart be detested so much?
This city disgusted me with all the judgement.
I didn’t think that my seat was taken away when Mr. Nobody pushed me away and sat there.
When his melody lured my heart -- only then my seat has truly been stolen.
Why can’t I capture people’s minds?
Why can’t I capture my own mind… Everything was in shambles.
When I came to be, everyone was listening to me play.
They were listening to my own performance.
The piano creaks, covered in my blood and flesh.
But how is it possible that my body could play it anyway,
with far greater willpower than I’ve ever had before?
That question is trivial compared to the delight in this moment.
Not stopping, I continue to play by smashing my damn body against the instrument.
Although it was supposed to be broken already,
it’s grown to be bigger with a better shape.
The keys elongate.
My arms stretch along.
A brand new arm rises for the play.
The music is more mellow than it ever was, resonating.
Score spreads out in front of my eyes.
People are ripped apart with me, turning into notes.
Making the same sound that came from the body of the jerk.
Fixers draw their swords.
Alas, they too have become a part of the play.
I can see the sound above the music sheet.
The sound of screaming, flesh exploding, bones breaking,
and organs being pulled apart.
Though all of that’s a cacophony, it turns into a melody with me.
It becomes a beautiful performance.
This is the true form of my talent.
The piano and I, that used to be under the ground, become one and rise to the higher stage.
I play alone at the bottom of the city.
Hitting the keys stronger and stronger,
so one day every ear in this city will be filled with my music.
I don’t sink into worthless contemplations anymore.
I don’t care about patrons or talents.
Everything becomes worthless in front of my melody.
Steadily keeping my place in front of the piano,
I make the tune flow that only I can play.
Though my performance could be flowing at the bottom, it will not sink further.
Now look who’s playing the music looking down...
...and look who’s shaking their body listening to the music, looking up.
I’m just a poor pianist born from the city.
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