Dear Piano,

I am not talented enough to have a grade in an instrument, and I am only just learning the notes in accordance to their position on a page (I just knew that a higher position was, you know, a higher note...), but music has gotten me through a lot in the past 18 years - I just hadn't realised this until recently. So this is to the piano I've been bashing at lunchtimes, and the odd right note I've picked up from Smilers.

I know this is an organ okay.

Dear Piano, 

                  You are the victim of a variety of finger tips for a profound number of years. From each, you pick up the unique fingerprint, the different style, the varying ability. And you are patient throughout. 

You are always encouraging; regardless of how you may cringe knowing that, no, for the eighteenth time, it's a G-sharp, not a natural, you willingly make the sound. There's no evident shudder and dismissal. You're not an English teacher encouraging unique interpretation, yet shutting down anything that you haven't said first. You allow each fingerprint to make their own mistakes, own verdict, own expression. 

When a fault is made, you don't shame me, or him, or anyone. You don't laugh under your breath from the back row of a biology lesson. You wait. The vibrations ease out into silence, providing space to try, try again. I admire your patience. If the world had the patience you have, it would most certainly be a better place. We could be more supportive of one another and help each other grow stronger, rather than trying to tear one another down in the pursuit of wanting to be Always Right and Always Better and Always More. 

We could learn from your ability to appreciate silence as much as you can. You don't scream out to fill the quiet, still, peace. You let other instruments, like the forever poorly tuned ukuleles, take the spotlight. You listen. Piano, you listen to the chords played by growing musicians, and the silence that is always filled, just not necessarily with sound, instead with thought, reading, development. I am so grateful for that. 

When my brain is filled with thoughts spinning, twisting, whirring, screaming at me, you are my outlet. No, I'm not a skilled musician and I highly doubt that one day I'll play a grand piano for a middle-class crowd drinking champagne, or some other fancy beverage I would never think about. However, you distract. 40 minutes fly by. I don't have to pay attention to stupidly sad remarks made that highlight society's ignorance, and I don't have to listen to how stressed my peers are, in the least selfish-way possible. I can lean on a key, take a few moments to work out a written note (F.A.C.E between the lines, E.G.B.D.F on the lines), a few more to translate that onto a key position, and, wait... what note was that meant to be again? 

Everything evaporates. Tunnel vision, the same way it swallows me when I sing with 60, eyes on the conductor, a language only we exclusively understand.

Music; an escape. Piano; my newfound obsession. Sound; more than the opposite of silence. 

Take care