The wind kissed her cheeks as she felt the wisps of her hair tickling her face. She smiled contently at the peace and quiet and a wave of nostalgia hit her, as the water crashed against the rocks. The sun lit up the sky in the warm hues of red and pink as the periwinkle waters struggled to keep its cool hues against the burning sky. She missed this. The peace, the quiet, the tranquility of her mother's house. She wondered to herself as to why she ever left this place. A place she once called her home.
She laughed at her vivid images of her mother's house, where her fiery youthful self, thought of it to be one of the most monotonous and mundane places for her colourful thoughts. The ache of mindless misguided excitement and childish wonder about the world and its mystical workings occupied her mind most days then. In retrospect, most of her youth seemed spent on things she didn't need. Have you ever spent so much time thinking about all the things you would like to do if you were a certain age? But kept passing that age and ended up just wasting all those years and time thriving on the hope that this all would amount to something some day? Yeah. That. She felt that.
Her mother hadn't changed a single thing. Not the vase with a chipped corner, or the Iranian rug that adorned the floor. "It matches your hair. Your fiery red hair, as you two light up my every morning when the sun enters our house, it is your hair and that rug, that light up this house. My dear, it's you. You're the fire to my life."
Her mind flooded with the memories of days gone, as her present crawled itself into a corner of her mind. 'Reality is an illusion, and what you and I make of it, counts for what is real and what is not.' These words echoed in her brain. Maybe she was a dreamer, taking after all her grandmother, a poetess. "Maybe what a writer does, doesn't account for much in the world of technology or science or business. But having the capability to pen down your vivid vast imaginations and dreams into a physical manifestation is a skill too. We are physical manifestations in a 3-D world where we have a conscious mind telling us about the lines between reality and fiction. But we writers can blur these lines and give the world a sneak peak of the eternal infinite possibilities of the world, only if you dream my love, dream." Her grandmother was truly a force of fire.
Maybe this is why their little quintessential house, adorned itself right next to the sea, as the water tried to tame the flames of the personalities inside the house.
The skies turned darker, as the redness of her hair, reflected the remnants of the light left in the sky, making her face almost glow eerily. To an outsider, she looked like a fading memory, a memory of the time spent in the walls of the house. She remembered how she looked, all pent up and scared, misguided with stubbornness. She remembered how lost and lonely she felt, but she had made up her mind. She wanted to go away from here and never come back. She wanted to find her own path, away from the house she once called home...
The audience then got to their feet and deafening clapping echoed the opera house and her finger played the song's last key.
She smiled to herself as the roaring sound of the audience's applause brought her back to her present reality. Smiling politely at the audience as her fingers left the comfort of the piano.
She really seemed to forget the time and place when she played the piano. For her, the music and keys she played each told her a story, a memory of years gone. Maybe she couldn't paint pictures with words, like granny could, but with music? She really could create some real masterpieces.
"This one's called From the Sea and the piano. I just wrote it a week back and hoped you all enjoyed it" she spoke into the mike, as she got a standing ovation from everyone in the room.
It's true after all. Nobody knew her like the piano, back in her mothers home. The place where she started this eternal love affair.
