You wear black. But this is not a funeral.
Wait your turn. It is your turn. You are not ready.
Perch on the sturdy bench. Thud, thud. You think you will take flight at any moment.
The feeling of black and white beneath fingertips. Rather randomly, you feel sorry for who comes next.
The first few measures ring out, uncertain and shaky.
The notes gradually grow stronger, fuller.
Your sweaty marks dot the keys.
Major and minor chords. Staccato and legato. Tenuto. Glissando. Tempo change. Mordent. Trill. Accidentals (why are there so many sharps and flats?).
The metronome in your head: do. not. fail. do. not. fail. do. not. fail. The metronome in your chest, too fast and growing ever faster.
The burn of eyes, all their fire directed at the single solitary figure. (Why did you choose to wear black?)
Accent. Marcato. Syncopation. Appoggiatura. More accidentals (double sharp, double flat, natural).
And finally, the fermata. Fade out.
A yawning profound silence. Applause.
You stand, shaky, and bow.
What have I gotten myself into? Why did I set this goal? I must contemplate my life choices.