It's Chopin

I have woken up in the middle of a forest. I don’t know how I got here. There is no way out. I have been walking aimlessly for the past hour. Or has it been a day? I don’t know. The forest seems to be expanding. The more I walk, the more lost I feel. I am wearing the same clothes I wore last night at a house party I attended. I usually avoid parties because the music is too loud and the people are even louder. But last night was fun. People were singing old songs, and there were conversations and laughter. I like these kinds of soirees. In fact, it was at this soiree that I learned the word soiree. At one point, a gentleman even played a bit of classical music. “It’s Chopin,” my friend remarked proudly, identifying the music just by the notes. “It could’ve been Bach too,” I said, just to test his knowledge. My only classical music knowledge comes from learning all the composers' names and their eras for a quiz. Anyway, my friend argued in a way only a knowledgeable person could have argued. I concluded it indeed was Chopin and not Bach or Schubert. Nonetheless, the music was fantastic. I wanted to walk up to him to appreciate his skills, but I chose to concentrate on my hors d'oeuvre instead. Does Paneer Tikka qualify as some form of hors d'oeuvre? I doubt it. Also, how would I have appreciated him? I would’ve just blurted out, "You have nice fingers," or something, or probably would’ve asked him, "How many keys are there on this piano?" I chose not to embarrass myself.

I remember listening to a conversation later in the evening about how the use of sonorism was quite common in earlier Polish compositions. I remember nodding as if I understood even a word of that sentence. The only time I have used the word sonorism is to describe the mannerisms of my gym trainer named Sonu. Some of his sonurisms involved selling everyone fake protein. As my colleagues were babbling (or genuinely discussing) this rich (or pretentious? I have no idea) topic, the fantastic gentleman who played Chopin popped in and gave his two cents. He talked in depth about music and how his dad made him learn all the classical pieces when he was just ten. Must be a rich guy, I thought. After spending about fifteen minutes with us, he went out for a smoke. I don’t think I saw him after that. Maybe telepathically he had heard the questions I was going to ask him. A wise man knows when to leave a party. I overstayed.

I don’t remember how I got home, but I remember unlocking my front door. Due to incessant rains, the wooden main door of my house has developed its own biceps, and it requires a solid push to open it. In fact, my arm is still aching from that push. I walked inside my apartment at around 1 AM, I think. It was completely dark, and for some reason, I decided not to switch on any lights. I have been living in this house for the past ten years. I know my way. I am familiar with the darkness. For a while, I stood near the kitchen, contemplating whether I should make some Maggi or not. Eating Maggi after a night that made me feel rich might have humbled me a bit too much. I decided against it and went straight to bed. A bottle of water was already on my newly bought IKEA side table.

I drink less water now. I eat less as well. I don’t know why, but for the past year, I haven’t felt hungry or thirsty. It’s like something is eating me up from inside. I have also lost a significant amount of weight. I don’t know if it’s a con or a pro, but as long as I don’t cough up blood, I am not going to a doctor. I am one of those self-diagnosing, self-treating guys for almost everything, as long as blood isn’t involved. I took a sip of water from the bottle before falling flat on my bed. It was a good party. One good thing about reaching home late at night is that you don’t have to deal with anxiety. This has also been one of my hacks for dealing with anxiety. Stay out, keep yourself busy, and be so tired when you reach home that the only option you have is to fall asleep. Of course, it doesn’t always work. There is nothing in this world that always works. Last night, it didn’t. I spiraled from one thought to another before concluding what an absolute disaster my life has been so far, and how it will continue to be so. If there was a secret passage in my mattress to escape from this world, I would’ve jumped without giving it a second thought. Alas, there wasn’t. Or maybe there was.

I think I have found a way out of this forest. I see some kind of light coming from very far away. I am tired of walking, but I muster up some courage, wipe the sweat, and start walking in that direction. The path isn’t exactly smooth. And I am wearing my bathroom slippers. How did I get to this place? Okay, let me think about this later. I walk and walk and walk. A strange sort of music is playing. I start walking faster. It’s Chopin. Someone is playing the same piece that gentleman played last night. I keep walking, but then the light goes out. The music fades. I am now more lost than ever. I look up in exasperation. No sky to be seen. I get a feeling that I am stuck here forever. I somehow walk back to the place I woke up at. My half-eaten sandwich and a bottle of water are still there, lying on the ground. I drink some water. A strange thought comes to my mind. Am I stuck or have I escaped? I scream, not for help, but just because I feel like screaming. Just because I have never screamed in my life. A tear rolls down. A small tinge of happiness. Maybe I don’t want to go back. But a wise man knows when to leave.

The doorbell rings. It’s the milkman. I look up in exasperation. I am stuck indeed. I don’t answer the door. I look around. It’s the same house. Or is this the forest? I don’t know anymore. There is no light coming from anywhere. It’s dark. Good morning. I play some Schubert and get ready for another day. How much more?