Her fingers are capable. Sure and steady. They always are. Thin and long as they should be. Graceful.
Pressing lightly into the keys, but producing deep notes, that puncture the soul. They come in restless waves, over and over. Crashing into the minds of the skeptical. She is not separate, but one with the piano.
The instrument reacts to her fingers, as if it could read her next moves, picking them from her swirling mind. She indulges into the music, listening to her fingers as they climb and slither along the keys. This is where she belongs, and where she will always become the happiest. In the world of her music, where everything seems to click together and make sense.
She is not on a stage, producing her heart's deepest melody, but inside her mind. She does not see her fingers moving with impossible flutterings but only hears the music she is creating.
Her body moves to the force of her impact, rocking back and forth. Her soft hair swings like a pendolum from behind her shoulders and to the front. But the song is coming to an end. What will she do? What will happen when the song ends?
Her heartbeat begins to quicken, fluttering against her small chest. The only thing that ever makes sense in this world is the music she plays. It always scares her when it begins to come to an end.
But everything that is good always comes to an end. She has come to accept this. Come to know it be true.
Her fingers slam down on the last chord, and the notes stop. It hangs into the air for a moment, lingering, before it's gone, silence taking it's place.
The applause is thunderous, the roses rain down upon the stage. She glances to the multitude of thousands and stands, unwillingly. She does not hear the crowd or see the people but throws them her best smile as she succumbs back into reality.