The tempo is too slow.
I feel my chest, my shoulders, my ribs compressing in an effort to eke out every last molecule of air before I desperately gasp to repeat the same damn process, with greater effort each time. My larynx must be somewhere between my eyeballs by now, and every rising half step invites greater tension into my jaw. Now my neck. Now my tongue. This isn’t fun at all–expression is dead, I don’t care what the words mean anymore, and the physical pain I feel is matched by the psychic pain of self-judgement. “Damn it, I was supposed to be better than this,” I tell myself. “I should be able to manage this, why does my technique fall apart so easily?” I’m doubting my talent, my intelligence, my musicianship, myself. After two to seven excruciating minutes, the pianist faces me and asks: “Sorry, was that too slow?”
I manage to contort my face into a grin. “No, it’s fine!”
“Okay, do you want to try it again?”
(me, internally: God no please no)
Me, cheerily aloud: “Sure!”
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