There is a sort of beautiful desperation in a singer when he is on stage, eyes closed, voice hoarse, singing to the person he sees in his head. He sings for no one else on stage, no one in the room, but someone far away and broken. With his eyes shut tightly, he imagines them in the back of the room, near the door, watching quietly with the biggest eyes he's ever seen. And suddenly, everything else disappears. His lyrics become a plea; a plea to stay, a plea to change, a plea to forgive. He keeps his eyes closed for the entire song, because the moment he sees the smoky crowd staring, the spell will be broken and the internal magic of the song lost. So he buries himself in his vision, leaning over the piano, stroking the keys with such delicacy and deliberation that it seems almost sensual. He is lost, lost forever in music, sound enveloping, emotion building as he cries out, head far back, lights blazing on his sallow cheeks, and his pleas to the heavens, to the angels, to Her, are heard. His baptism is complete and the sweat on his brow mixes with the tears on his cheeks. He is purified until tomorrow night on a different stage. A temporary musical crucifixion of the soul, of the spirit of music. The pain is worth the pleasure, day after day. This is his ritual until the ache is gone. Whether the ache ever leaves is unimportant--what matters is the emotion it evokes. People can linger forever on the words, on the melody, on the heartbreaking harmony of the lowest keys. They copy the lyrics in notebooks, trying to decipher the meaning of this mystery, this golden boy of broken hearts, playing his piano under the spotlight.
Always with his eyes closed.
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