The notes rolled off my fingers, taking with them little peices of me.
Each eighth note, each sixteenth that flew by took it's toll.
I am left with music ringing in my ears, and a mixed voice of relief, regret, but mostly a job well done.
There were, of course, some wrong notes, some ill-timed ones, and some not as clear and confident. Of that I am painfully aware.
We do not achieve perfection. We keep trying, knowing that we can get closer each time than we were before.
I did not run a marathon. In fact, I barely got my dishes done, but I did play a lot of notes.
The day is done, and I am done too.
Such is the life of a pianist.
