7 sonnets
The theatre lights switched on, flooding the large stage in its white light, a grand piano sitting in the middle of the vast expanse of black, polished floor. A soft, far away clicking noise could be heard, as the famous pianist appeared on stage. His dark hair gelled back he walked on carrying an old tattered suitcase. Taking a seat at the piano he straightened his black bowtie and turned his attention to the case, flicking the old brass locks open, he took out a small notebook and a black ink pen. He began to play and compose his own concerto.
The first sonnet
People said it was a gift, some said it was because he worked hard. He thought differently. It wasn't because he work hard, or because he had a marvellous gift. It was because he knew how to compose from the bottom of his heart, with all his soul. Maybe it was because he'd been through so much, maybe it had been because as a child, he never learned to vent through conventional methods, or maybe it was because he'd finally found love. When someone finds something like that, miracles happen and his life turned around, he was now one of the most famous pianists of his age. He flipped the page over.
The second sonnet
He thought about it some more, his fingers moving on their own. He'd practically memorized this piece so far. It was his passion, simply because, in a way, it was him. Each verse a section of his life, each note an event that had shaped him into the person he was now. He was still in a way, the same distant individual he had been 10 years ago. He still enjoyed being alone, like he was now, the empty theatre his only company, just doing what he loved while thinking about the woman he missed so much.
The third sonnet
This section of his piece was dedicated to her. He remembered the first time they had met. It had been at a concert, his very first concert. Not many people turned up, only a few choice people who knew him and some talent scouts. He remembered the pain, the anger that rushed through him when they told him what they thought. It did not follow the rules they said, not well thought out they said. Frustrated, he stayed there until the early hours of morning, just trying to fix his piece. The talent scouts told him they would give him one more chance, in another year. Exhausted, he'd woken up to the sound of a violin. Its high tune filled with pain and sadness, the passion could be heard. He wanted to know who played that, he wanted to learn how to convey emotion through his music.
The fourth sonnet
He had found her behind the door of a small studio. She just sat at the window on a little stool, playing to herself, as the morning light played with her indigo hair. They had talked. It had taken time and patience for the awkwardness to eventually wear away. She told him she had been there that night, she thought he played well, he played with passion, with anger, with hurt, with pain. She explained to him that music was for the individual to enjoy, not for others to judge. She told him he was playing with what was in my heart, and that was all that mattered. So he asked her a question. Why was your music so sad?
The fifth sonnet
It was in the fifth sonnet of his life that his music took on a lighter tone. They had met everyday since then, they discussed music, instruments, life, and basically anything they felt like talking about. They laughed during conversations. It was hard for him to laugh, he'd never really learned how to as a child. He fondly remembered hers. Like the soft tinkling of wooden wind chimes on a breezy day. He liked her laugh.
They bonded well and days, weeks, months began to fly by just being in her company. He looked forward to every day, and he soon realized that maybe he was having more feelings then he should for just a friend. He managed to gather up enough courage to ask her out to dinner one day, and she agreed. That night, they were both clear about what relationship they had with each other. She received her first red rose, it was the colour of deep maroon. They had discussed in the past once, about what colour they thought best represented love, they both agreed on a rich, deep red. He had received his first kiss and that night, they had made love and woken up together in the morning.
The sixth sonnet
A week flew by from that night, and they only grew more in love. Then abruptly, his music changed from that of the romantic period to the baroque, dramatic and exaggerated. That was how love made everything feel. The simplest touch was multiplied a hundred fold, into something that made his heart skip a beat. It was the same case with something negative. He remembered well, that day she had played the same sad song he had heard almost a year ago, and he asked her why. She broke into tears and the next day, he did not see her anymore. He waited, but she never came back. He felt... depressed, he'd already waited a week. So he vented, vented until his broken heart felt slightly recovered, he vented the only way he knew how. His music.
He hastily scrawled down, what he felt, all the pain, the wild passion he remembered they had together; he poured it onto a sheet in the form of music notes. Another week passed by, and the talent scouts came once again. This time he struck big, and with every performance, every stage he graced, his pain gradually faded. He had many more relationships, but none were the same as his first love. His true love.
The seventh sonnet
He stopped, his fingers still on the keys. They had nowhere to go now. The space in his little music book was empty, waiting for the last sonnet. The last chords faded and another sound began to echo through the theatre, the soft, clear sound of one person applauding him. Looking up from his music, he scanned the rows and rows of empty seats, and then he found them. Sitting in the front row, a woman with indigo hair silently cried, her eyes shone with tears as she looked up at the renowned musician. Standing up, she walked onto the stage holding a single deep red rose, she gave it to him, and planted a soft kiss on his cheek.
"You have so much passion." She whispered. Then she laughed with that same quiet tinkling in her voice. He took her out to dinner that night, and they talked, laughed and remembered the times that they shared. The next morning he woke up, with her asleep against his bare chest, close enough that he could feel the beating of her heart next to his.
He knew, that it was soon in which his seventh, and final sonnet would be complete.
Fin.