"The · World · is · But · a · Stage"

My fingers didn't move although I had already stopped feeding the last note echoing away into the distant corners of the hall. I could hear the last chord hovering in mid-air and yet, all was silent. One could have heard a pin drop despite the silent chord still sounding in our ears. I wondered how long I could hold this mute note which was gradually releasing the tension this last piece had evoked.

Somehow this silence was as natural to the music as those empty pages one often finds enclosing a printed book balancing out a bundle of sheets to either side which only are partially use. Likewise a tune is born from and dies into silence, thus closing an ever ongoing cycle. But instead of observing only silence you are repeating some musical strain – yet, all is silent.

I don't know how long I had held this silence – or had time stopped? – but by now I was gradually growing aware of the mute walls holding this infinite music. My lips released the eternal note; my fingers let the keys resume a sleeping position awaiting their next sound; my eyes opened to a sea of immobile heads not daring to cause a ripple on the quiet surface. The silence guided me further into reality and released the instrument form its former position. I must have shifted my weight, for a creak of the stage boards welcomed in the tide of applause drowning the peaceful silence with its waves.