The blood drains from my fingers, leaving them as white as the ivory keys they hover over; a pin could be heard dropping in the back of the theater where 200 pairs of eyes all fixate upon my frozen hands. Until mere seconds ago, I was the piece de resistance, the fearless captain at the helm of his great black vessel, an ebony machine that bowed to my every command. That, however, was seconds ago. Now the great black vessel has run afoul of the rocks, the commands are unresponsive, the machine is silent, and the debonair captain is nothing but a hack in a knockoff Italian suit. I can almost visualize Rachmaninoff rolling in his grave as the melody grinds to a dissonant halt; nothing escapes the piano now. Scenes flash through my mind, vivid pictures of every major moment in my piano career; the room around me fades, my mind transports me through my own rabbit hole called piano studies.

The scene spills out into a warm March afternoon, a flustered mother dragging a defiant 4-year-old me to the family 4-Runner. “I don’t want to!” the young incarnation of myself cries, “Piano is stupid!” What I do not realize in my bellicose state is that I am only delaying an inevitable, destiny-altering course of events that will eventually become one of the most prevalent forces I could ever imagine. Moments later, I am dumped onto a dusty piano bench in a house that smells faintly of tea and salt. An elderly woman with frizzy gray hair and a cane begins to teach me how to move my meaty fingers along the keys in a fashion that at first resembles nothing more than disjointed noise, but slowly begins to take the form of “Yankee Doodle Dandy." Floored by the marvel of this simple tune, little me soon couldn’t be pried away from the piano even if the world would have been crashing down around my ears.

The flashback then transports me to my first performance, a 5-year-old me sits at the bench boasting a beaming smile and a junior size clip-on tie. My fingernails have been polished and both my socks are matching, even my ratty blonde hair that had once earned me the nickname “Dennis the Menace” is combed to a tee for this special occasion. My fingers hammer away at the keyboard, producing the greatest rendition of “Camp Town Races” that had ever been performed, or so my mother told me. After my smashing performance ends I am carted away again down the rabbit hole, memories whisking by in a conglomerate sea of time that flashes past my eyes.

As the memories pass by, I see the instrument grow in prevalence within my life, becoming more than just a hobby or casual interest. Soon it is my best friend, a companion I can turn to whenever I need; a calming voice that only tells me what I want to hear and always understands what I am feeling without question or pause. More loyal than the greatest guard dog, the instrument always sits ready for me, beckoning me to lose myself in the enthralling world that I create for myself with nothing more than the drop of my hands. I manifest the destiny of the very world around me when I am in control of this marvelous beast. I can shout beyond the noise of the loudest concert hall and shake the very heavens above me, yet I can whisper the softest lullaby to tame even the wildest night.

Despite their magic, fantasies of a young boy are merely fleeting memories in the way of time, and a half-decade down the road, a delinquent teenage me has all but left piano behind. “That’s just a silly thing I learned when I was a kid.” I laugh, fuddling away at my cheap guitar to impress my new girlfriend. Piano was just a fleeting memory, I was going to join a band and make rock and roll history, there was no room for that dusty old instrument anymore.

However, fate oftentimes steals away the best laid plans of mice and men, and teenage heartbreak knocks me out of my brazen rocking and onto the ground at 1:15 am without so much as a passing glance. In my traumatized stupor, I find myself staring at an all too familiar sight. I pull the worn leather cover back and brush the dust off the ivory keys, the moonlight through a window reflects and shines them like the most brilliant diamonds my eyes could ever behold. I run my fingers along the keys, ignorant of my sleeping family, the keys answer like eager hounds that have treed their prey. I was King of my fantasy realms once again, and all the magic had returned.

Soon after, I have reclaimed piano with a vengeance, committing myself mind and hands to mastering the instrument and create vivid fantasies that even the greatest dreamer could not fathom. Sonatas paint the most beautiful portraits of red and blue under my fingertips, twitter pated couples waltz under a Parisian sky in time to my direction. The very soul of the instrument is alive and bending to my will. Concerts, auditions, recitals, all pass behind like mile markers along the side of a highway; soon I am preparing for my greatest performance of them all.

The night of the performance arrives, and I cast one last glance at my notes on “Sergei Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in G-minor,” a dastardly composition that had sent many prior pianists home with their tails between their legs. However, the mighty piece does not so much as phase me, and soon I am striding towards a sleek black Steinway piano that looms like a great leviathan bursting forth from the ocean’s depth. A quick bow is greeted by a spattering of applause, I take my seat, and begin. The first notes trail off in a militant rhythm like Cossacks marching in a line. All is going well until the second movement, when suddenly, my hands freeze above the keys, the tune in my head has vanished like smoke into a magician’s hat.

The memories stop and I am snapped back into my time, hands still hovering over the keys, the audience waiting my next movement. Although years have played out in my mind, not more than two seconds have passed, a lady in the front row coughs once, adjusting her thick rimmed glasses as she stares towards me. A bead of sweat glistens on my forehead and I beg my conscious to tell my hands what to do, how to save me from this horrific scene I have placed myself in.

After what feels like an eternity (although I am told it was not more than 5 seconds), the shape of the melody flashes before me and my fingers resume their movement without a hitch. The remainder of the piece flows flawlessly as the great black machine rumbles back to life and once again answers to me. As the song draws slowly to a close, I stand and bow to the audience again, this time greeted with a thunderous applause that rattles my still reeling mind. The memories still parade through my head, but one thing is now prevalent above them all: that the glory does not belong at all to me, but the majestic instrument now resting peacefully behind me.