[ WP ] Time and time again , you failed . Today , you succeeded .

There was a piano in the middle of the train station. Though it was kept firmly under lock and key during rush hour ( the staff complained of not being able to hear people over the music, as if the roaring of half a dozen trains were not five times as loud ), it saw plenty of use. A hideous proposal for those commuters still trying to cage the demon hangovers, the sound of music was a constant feature in those icy mornings. The quality of said music varied wildly, of course, with younger children favouring the `` mash it hard'' school of pianism. Some people did, however, know how to play. Whether it was to show off, practice a new piece in front of a crowd, or simply because the muse was impossible to shake, people would invariably find themselves drawn to the instrument. 
 
 I do n't think I wanted to show off, really. It was more about playing in a new environment, on a new instrument. The large interior of the train station gave each piece a peculiar resonance, and the constant ambient sounds of the bustling public travel hotspot lent the music a strange sense of power. There was a sense of having made an impact on the world, however small. Today, the soundtrack was you. 
 
 It was early March, and I had been practicing for my upcoming exams. It was after a particularly uneven rendition of Chopin's Waltz in B Minor ( Op. 69, No. 2 ) that an elderly woman congratulated me for `` Making the world that bit more beautiful.'' How my neck was able to support my head, now enlarged to three times its normal size, I will never know. I was n't particularly talented ( and I'm still not ), but people never really seemed to notice. It was absurdly pleasing to receive praise from strangers, and that's definitely part of the reason I made the little 10 minute performance part of my morning routine. 
 
 Having music exams ( or any performance, not that I made a point of giving any ) in winter is always quite stressful, particularly early on in the day. If you do n't arrive early enough, your hands wo n't have time to warm up properly before you play. Cold muscles are stiff, and you'll be lucky if you sound half as good as you did in rehearsal. It was three days before my exam ( in front of the head of department, an added pressure I found to be absolutely unnecessary ), and my hands were like blocks of frozen ham. I was en route to the university, and sat down to play a piece at the piano. It was the Fugue from the very famous `` Toccata and Fugue in D minor'', attributed often to Bach, though it has never actually been confirmed. Halfway through, I realize that it is not memorized as well as it might have been ( not that I was to perform it ), and so gave up mid-phrase and went to catch my train. As I was walking towards the platform, I hear music. A Fugue, the very same one I had been playing. From the same bar. No, from the same *beat* of the same bar. And it sounded good. Much better than what I had been playing moments before. Looking back, I saw a young woman, perhaps early twenties, hunched over the thing. Fulfilling that tried and true pianist stereotype, her hair was wild and unkempt, covering most of her face. She was thin as a rail. I felt a strange mix of contempt, envy, and admiration. 
 
 My exams went as well as can be expected, B's across the board. With the primary motivator now lifted, I ceased to practice with such fervor. I always had lacked discipline, musically. It was June before I heard her play again. A Scriabin Etude, and a monstrously ugly one at that. She played it well, though. As well as anyone could, at least. Never having had the intention of even so much as *touching* a piece of Scriabin, I hopped on my train with nary a thought about it. A day out in Lewes provided all the charms that the south coast of England had at its disposal, and I arrived back on the 5 PM train. The woman was, bafflingly, still at the piano. Now though, she was playing a particularly saccharin Clair De Lune to a small but devoted crowd, a few of whom were actually filming the performance on their phones. I had been gone for perhaps 8 hours, had she been there the whole time? Desperately curious at this point, I thought about maybe trying to catch her between pieces, to ask her what her story was. There was an incredibly deeply ingrained instinct within me, however, to see confident musicians not as people, but as looming, talented, gargoyles. I could not find within me even the merest shred of courage that it would have taken to casually strike up conversation. After the piece ended, I left. 
 
 I had just finished the 2nd year of a 3 year undergrad degree, and so my summer was almost obscenely long, and thoroughly unoccupied. I really had no reason to be commuting anywhere ( after all, Brighton is home to all manner of cultural happenings, why would anyone *need* to travel? ), but I still found myself visiting the station a few times a week. Sometimes I told myself that a day out in London was due, but it never came about. Sometimes she was n't there. Usually she was. The repertoire at her disposal was mind-boggling in its breadth. She could go from a frenzied Liszt Sonata straight into a Passacaglia by Handel without giving you time to breathe. She was ferocious, even her pianissimo had a kind of fractious energy to it. The piano had been played for so long for so many people, it had started to fall out of tune. It was almost surreal, hearing Purcell played on an instrument like that. She made it work though, all the while hunched over like the picture of a virtuoso, all dramatic gestures and tangles of hair. Every day, I felt as though I ought to try talking to her. Even to make some kind of comment affirming her ability to create nice music. I did n't though. It was strange, the power that the almost imperceptible taboo of engaging a total stranger in conversation could hold over me. Would n't it be strange? 
 
 As term started again, I remember dreading my class on `` Electro-Acoustic composition''. It sounds extremely cool, I know, but really it's just a fancy way of saying `` let's learn how to use Cubase and record some stuff in the forest''. I wanted to play the piano. At least, I thought I did. I never had gotten back into the practice routine. In the first and second year, performance classes were mandatory, but in the third and final year I had opted to take the theoretical/compositional route, which meant I did n't have to play in front of anyone ( a great mercy for someone of my nervous disposition. ) It also meant I did n't have to practice. I had also stopped the impromptu train station performances. 
 
 Something I learned about musicians during this time, is that the good ones ( that is, the *really* good ones ) are completely and utterly absorbed by music. Now, I'm worried you'll hear that and think `` They really like music''. No, they are *completely and utterly absorbed. * A serious musician will spend perhaps 4 hours a day practicing. They will attend rehearsals, which will account for some of this time. They will attend performances, which will account for none of it. They will research their instruments, discuss their instruments, compare composers, pieces, techniques, talk *at length* about any and all musical minutia, and socialize primarily with other musicians, with whom they also work. It is a true vocation, and there is little room for much else. If you are a serious musician, you are that and that alone. To me, it always felt quite desolate. When you go from being a young adult who plays music, to being an old adult who plays music, the fundamental need to generate income based on your talents ( not that `` talent'' is a word that should ever be used to describe a musician, `` skill'' always struck me as far more fitting, something that one develops themselves ) adds a huge amount of pressure to the whole thing. It sucks out the life and soul of the music you're engaging with. You cease to be an artist, and you are viewed largely as a commodity. You're no longer `` Jane'', you're `` Violin'', you're no longer `` Harry'', you're `` Trombone''. Poor Harry. 
 
 Or did I really think any of that? Sometimes it's hard to tell. Today, she was playing Chopin's Nocturne in Eb Major ( Op. 9, No. 2 ). A real crowd pleaser, that one. It was one of the pieces that I was most confident with, being fairly straightforward amongst Chopin's Nocturnes. It was a warm autumn evening, and through the old, dusty, windows, the low red sun scattered light over the station. Her hair was still over her face. She played with the same energy I might expect from a debut performance at a prestigious venue, even though there was almost nobody there to hear but me. My degree was almost over, and though I did n't know it at the time, I would stop playing the piano shortly afterwards. Why had I not spoken to her? The first time she had completed the piece I had cut short, I took it as an affront, a personal challenge. Was that cynical? I still do n't know. Did she love music more than I did? Was that why I had lapsed so thoroughly? What did n't I understand? 
 
 `` Hi.''
