Fantasie-Impromptu

XVI. Sonata for Piano Duet

"I don't think I can make him wait any longer. I should get back." a low voice speaks from the tender darkness, a place no one can see. A place no one has seen. That voice so filled with heartache and yearning. It was a familiar voice, but a certain pianist no longer recognized it. Soon that voice would fade, and the memory of that sound would no longer be remembered.

A love gone past. An ache muffled. A heart re-frozen. And soon everything would turn into black - a dream easily forgotten.

Again, with the low whirring of the cold air conditioner in the background, it was a quiet atmosphere today, little beams of light sneaking peaks through the thick curtains of Fryderyk's bedroom, and in a while, a small yawn would escape from this man's mouth.

Fryderyk's eyes flutter open in the most elegant and graceful means as he awakens, but doesn't yet get up. Instead, he stares straight into the all too familiar ceiling of his bedroom. He relinquishes in the quiet ambience of his place as he tries to brush away the tiny feeling of loneliness that was scratching at his heart.

He fights the urge to get up when his phone vibrates. Somebody was calling him. But Fryderyk couldn't be more bothered to pick it up. "It's probably just another signing contract for my new album. I'll get it later." - he thinks to himself.

Fryderyk Chopin, a little bit after that whirly freezing storm, had become a new man. He was now world-renowned, he was now multi-award winning, he was now touring Europe like there was no tomorrow.

In a span of just one year, Fryderyk churned pieces after pieces like his life depended on it. He conquered his fears, and here and there he held concerts after concerts as if he were running out of time. Day after day, Fryderyk was working as if it was the last shot he'd ever get at life. And secretly, he wholeheartedly believed that it was.

Fryderyk, without admitting it, felt like this would in fact be his last shot at life - his last "hoorah!". He no longer looked forward to his mornings like he used to. He no longer played his piano with as much enjoyment or as much passion as he used to. He no longer looked at anyone like how he used to. He no longer loved.

From then on, Fryderyk lived like his life was clockwork. It was just routine at this point - the same thing over and over again. He studies, he plays, he writes, and he sleeps. No more, no less. Nothing new, nothing exciting, nothing to look forward to, nothing at all.

Though Fryderyk was gaining a lot more money and fame this time - he had basically achieved his lifelong dream as a musician - he still didn't feel content. Instead, he felt lifeless. He grew tired of having everything - it took away the thrill of the possibility of failure, of risk. It took away his life. But he didn't quite understand why he felt like this.

It was all too ironic to him in his wonderful creative mind. His music exhibited great technique and masterful forms that only a debated genius could ever even begin to think of. His pieces helped shape new meanings in the classical music scene, and his piano was a star he never thought would shine as brightly as it shines now.

But his music lacked passion. It lacked a certain touch, it lacked feeling. It lacked emotion. It lacked love. His music, though has achieved many great titles, was no longer actual music. It was nothing but a complex plan of selfish revenge translated into a beautiful tangle of musical scribbles - a petty act of anger that was so great, it turned stupidity into genius.

But Fryderyk, deep down, was still very much unsatisfied. And he didn't know why. And it was this not knowing of why that made Fryderyk's conscience itch in an unlikely manner. It made his heart pound. It made his head reel. It made him frustrated at his success that he could not share with anyone he loved.