Sadness

He was sitting on the bed and listening to piano music. The music was all about loneliness, without a single human voice being uttered.

Just the sound of the piano, sobbing, one voice after another, entire colonies of lonely cells building up into organs, organs into organisms.

Lonely as he was, seldom leaving his house, he felt through listening to this music, that somewhere out there are other lonely people, too.

All the beauty of the roses, the crystal laughter of children, the quiet noise of the pouring rain clouded by the virus of sadness and stillness, as opposed to motion and evolution.

Earth revolving around itself, sustaining, feeding a colony of people, who should be orchestrated into a single well-sounding song of joy.

Yet, there is this trembling sound of piano, played by a man he has never met, a man probably just as isolated as he himself.Even the pale sunlight was shadowed by the curtains of his room, a decent habitat by the way, yet too small for him to move around.

He imagined the pianist next to a pool full of water, ten dogs and four chicken, a singularly designed red Ferrari, some green yards in the back of his mansion, and a lit cigar in case he wanted to stop playing music.

Maybe he was too poor to be happy. Not enough room for some good old adrenaline, just the virus of sadness eating him up. He lit a cigarette and fancied how much such a pianist must have worked to reach a stream of sounds so perfect, and innocent. He was nothing but a worker, a chap payed by the hour.

These musicians, and he thought of the heavy smashing sound of the stones he had to lift up, put to place, then go and grab another. That was his job, a construction worker. He heard of blue collars only on his television, and suspected this whole democracy to be the equilibrium of a few extremely well skilled scam-artists, trained along hard years for the job of popping aces out of their pockets.

For him even a glass of beer was a waste, and as such, no comparison was to be made between his life and that of the imagined pianist next to his own swimming pool.

He went to his fridge, grabbed a beer saved for better days, and changed the radio channel. Maybe it was the music after all.