The keys are comfortable beneath my fingers and I cannot feel the eyes of the audience beside me. In fact, I have become so lost in the music that it is as if I were alone, serenading myself with waves of beautiful swelling harmonies that are unexpectedly filled with an underlying sense of agony. It is mesmerizingly melodic putting me into a daze that promises no release until the end of the piece. It is a kind of musical heaven that would have never been possible if it were not for one man.
Indeed, he was only one man as human as the rest of us, yet he pushed the ideas of music far deeper than those that had come before him. Every story has a beginning and the story of this musical paradise began 203 years ago in the country of Poland, where an infant was born. The year 1810 marked the beginning of one of the greatest composers in the history of nineteenth-century classical music. Frédéric Chopin was a Romanticist, meaning he lived during the Romantic period, a time where music focused more on the expression of emotions than on any particular format or form. Chopin adored his homeland. So much so that it was not until 1831, at the age of twenty-one years old, that he left his homeland. During this period, Poland fell to the forces of Russia or previously known as the Soviet Union. He traveled to Paris and his career took flight.
In Paris, Chopin became incredibly well-known among the aristocratic people. His songlike compositions gained much recognition. He played and composed with fervor. Surprisingly, his life was filled with difficulties. His lifetime difficulties span from troubles with George Sand (pen name) to ill-health. His personality was as sensitive as his health. He was almost constantly vexed by longing for things that were out of his reach. These factors of his personality helped inspire his music that was filled with sorrowful beautiful melodies, that are dissonant yet satisfying harmonies as well as repetitive yet rich in effect. Unlike other Romantic composers, Chopin was completely dedicated to the piano. This permitted him to master the instrument, allowing him to compose numerous versatile works ranging from dances to ballades, preludes to concertos and even to nocturnes.  In the year 1849, Chopin's delicate health took him at age thirty-nine. His death certificate states that he passed from tuberculosis. However, today it is suspected that he truly passed from cystic fibrosis. Interestingly, his heart was preserved. It is a remnant of the great composer and it is kept at a church in his beloved homeland Poland.
The finale of my performance begins and I wind down to the final chord. Traveling from dissonance into consonance, from minor to major, ending on a C major inversion. My hands ache, my wrists hurt, I am tired.  Despite this, I cannot help but smile. Chopin is an idol of mine: a composer and musician who mastered the art of the piano and wrote some of the most magnificent pieces I have ever heard. I played one of his pieces during that performance, Opus 25 No. 12; the audience applauded me. They also applauded Chopin. My performance may have been impressive but it was by no means as impressive as the original composition. I am not to credit for the great performance. I had only played what Chopin brilliantly wrote. I played his piece to continue his legacy. For the same reason, I write this piece today. Frédéric Chopin was simply a genius. No matter how many times I may play any of his work and no matter how talented I may become, I will never live on through history in the same way that Chopin has. He is a mastermind that remembered all chords, major and minor, diminished and augmented and that shall never be forgotten.