Piano keys are a funny thing. If you memorize the right order you can play the phantom of the opera, or drops of Jupiter, or the sugar plum fairy song, or happy birthday. If you memorize the right order with each press into the board a new tear forms and rolls down hot cheeks until a hand pushes it away, dismissing the sentiment. If you memorize the right order you can make legs move and arms follow, a background anthem to eager bodies, dance. If you memorize the right order a voice may wish to override, the words a sweet symphony atop the melody of pressed notes. But, you must memorize the right order. Without order, without a pattern, this is not called music, it’s called noise. Noise doesn’t evoke emotion, noise wrangles annoyance. Some days you’re a middle C, but some days you’re an A flat. If you don’t find the right accompanying notes you’ll cause noise, maybe even pressing the peddle in hopes that your note will last longer, blasting over the swell of others sounds in a strive to make music. Too often we find ourselves as an A flat of a B sharp or an E and we cannot seem to find any songs to strike our fancy. But we continuously press on, deaf to the sound we make in everyone else’s harmonies. Press press, just to be heard. Press, press, hoping we’ll blend.

The funny thing is, we all want the same thing, beautiful music, music we belong in, a song to fit us every day. But we still sit and press on, hoping some day our note will be recognized for its beauty. Maybe, just maybe, we should write our own symphony.