The Piano. Keys so black...so white. Patterns. Over, over, over.
The Patterns. Universe so much like piano keys. Same rhythm, same pattern, over and over. Stars, time, space, earth. All with patterns that look the same; but when played, sound different every time. Of course, most patterns aren't heard, they're felt. They're sensed. Something that happens over and over and over. Sunrising. Sunsetting. Pattern. Black on white on black.
He suppose that's why he liked the piano so much.
He research had patterns, to. The constant, the variable, the rat. Common threads, common beginnings....but very different endings. Like a song. Starts the same, with different messages. It's how he played the key's in between that made the song what it was. What he did, how he did it, produced a different melody every time he put his hand to the black and white and played---opened the door to his lab, put on his coat, stretched his hands, picked up the old piece of chalk—putting his hands to the keys and stretching his fingers.
Ready to play?
Then he'd thunder down. Long, hard, loud. Some people complained, told him to stop playing, stop trying. His song wasn't sweet, he'd give them that. Most of the time it sounded perfectly hellish; out of tune. But each time though, each time it got better. Each time the sound improved, he learned not to play that key then. Other's might not have heard or seen it, but he did. One key closer to a completed symphony.
It kept him going. Everyday, even if he only got a key closer, a key was still a key. And the next day, like practicing piano, he would repeat the musical pattern he knew worked until he got to the one he wasn't sure of, and try it. Wrong? He'd try another. Right? He'd write the note down on the paper. Save it. One step closer.
One key right.
Some days, he got multiple keys. Multiple steps, sounds, closer to the song. They always seemed to come when he needed them most, when he couldn't read the next note on the music. When he was the most discouraged, when he felt like he almost wanted to leave the piano, but at the same time knew he couldn't.
Part of him....part of him was fearful of leaving the piano. Leaving the song. Fearful that there was nothing else he could do. No other song he could play. Only one, only one. That's was what he was always told, he could only play that song; at a point, he didn't believe it. But now...now he couldn't leave the song behind, because what if the voice was right?
Then things were harder, he forgot the whole song he had learned. He almost gave up. He slowly with drew his hands from the keys.
To far. Come to far.
So he started over again. Hoping to remember, hoping to recall the notes. Some came...some didn't. But he kept trying. Going wherever, doing whatever. Pounding on the keys until his fingers were red and sore. He would find it, and he would play it again.
So close...yet so far.
Things got louder and louder. Voices around his piano, telling him to stop playing, trying to read the notes for him and saying what they meant. No, no they were wrong; he knew what the black writing on paper meant, he had the song now. He played like there was nothing else that mattered. The song was beautiful...but at the same time, haunting. But he kept playing, keys banging, hands flying, determined.
Although, all songs must end sometime; that's what makes them songs. If they never ended, that would make them patterns. Eternal
So his ends. No more notes. He has them figured. All gone, no more. He lifts his hands from the keys and slowly pushes the seat away. He stands, then walks, the leaves. He can walk away now because he knows that his work is done, and the prospect of leaving the piano behind no longer frightens him.
He welcomes it. For his hands are red and numb from playing, and he has more to do.
He always did love playing the piano. Figuratively....and literally.
--
You better friggin' know who I'm talkin' 'bout here...
