Music is mathematics, really.
Way back in ancient Greece, music was dubbed
the highest form of mathematics, and it is, truly. It's notes,
time
signatures, scales, octaves, precise calculations and the vibration
of sound.
Written down, it can look almost ugly -- black and white, not
exciting at all.
And the instruments themselves
-- they're calculated, finely designed.
They're beautiful in their own way, each a work of craftmanship,
but they're
useless by themselves, dependent on someone else to control the
strings or
press the keys. And that someone has to be skilled, because it's
so easy to
play a wrong note, and instead of the exquisite melody you want
to play, a
banshee's wailing will appear.
It's funny, how something as
imperfect as a human being is essential for a
musical piece to be completed. It's impossible for music to be
created
without someone directing the instrument in the direction they
want it to
play. The instrument is capable of making thousands -- millions
-- of
different tunes, but without someone to write the music or to
control the
instrument, music would never have been invented in the first
place.
And human beings *are* flawed,
in a very fundamental manner. It's built into
them -- or us, I should say, because I'm no better than the rest.
We're
always searching for something, something to do, something to
live for,
someone to love...
In mathematics, an equation like that wouldn't equal up. Another difference.
It's my theory that humans are
incomplete by themselves. They need something
to complete themselves. And theyll search until the end of the
world to find
it, because no one wants to be incomplete, no one wants to have
this terrible
loneliness in their hearts.
I always used to find solace
in music, because it was something I could do
when I was alone. No cruel father, no distant mother, no anxious
maids
hovering about. It was always just myself and the instrument of
my choice.
The music soothed my loneliness, covered open the gaping wound.
But the music was only there
because I was always so empty and I could never
find any other way of filling myself up. The music only filled
in the gaps, but I
was still always waiting...
And then, just because I played
so well, people started listening to me play,
and paying me to play for them, and made me famous. And because
my father was
so rich, I quickly escalated up the ranks of musical prodigies.
And now, I have to play music,
over and over, and I don't want to play
anymore. I don't want to have to play for those who only want
my music for
selfish purposes. I want to play only for myself, only to fill
up the
emptiness inside of me. I don't want to have to play for you,
or you, or you,
who only favors me to keep up an appearance.
I don't mind playing for her,
though. Something about her...maybe it's the
expression on her face when I finish a difficult piece in practice.
Maybe
it's her smile. Maybe it's the way she acts, always totally sincere,
even
when she's lying. I like it...I like her.
There. I've said it. I don't
know why I feel this compulsion to spill my feelings
like this; it doesn't add up. Maybe it's her own natural honesty
affecting me.
When I see her, I want...I want...
I feel like I've found the way to become complete.
Surely it's not natural to feel
so warm every time she's around me, is it?
Surely it's not healthy to have this compulsion to keep looking
at her, is
it? I don't understand it. It doesn't add up.
If I'm not careful, she'll catch
on. Will she mind? Will she hate me? Or will
she smile? I'm so conflicted. I can't predict how she'll act.
She's the least
predictable person I know, with such a mercurial termperment,
short-tempered
and stubborn and very, very...
...cute...
I did not just say that.
But even though she's so capricious,
I don't want to hurt her. She's the only person
who treats me naturally, as if I were her friend instead of an
icon to be revered. If I
tell her my feelings too prematurely, then she'll be frightened
away, and never return
then.
And I have the feeling that,
as my love of music slips away daily, I'm going
to need her, as something to complete me. Something to replace
the thing
that's filled me for so long. I can't alienate her yet...
It doesn't add up, though, me
liking -- loving -- a girl as rude and
inconsiderate as her. Shouldn't I like someone else, more suitable?
Or is
love, like music, something that has imperfect people taking part?
I rather hope it does, otherwise I'll never be able to reciprocate.
I guess love doesn't have to add up, after all.