The Maker of the Crowd

I took the short walk from my college dorm to the lounge, for a cheap, upright piano lay waiting. Other guys stood in the courtyard, teaching cute, shallow girls to throw a football (what a useful skill) and shirking their studies. Music (bad music, I might say. Not bad as in obscene, but just bad music) blared from dorm windows as the inhabitants strove to give the appearance of one who was a part of a whole, the whole being society. As I approached the lobby, I could hear music faintly floating on the air through the door, that tinkling music which only belongs to the higher registers of the piano. The door opened almost of its own accord as I fell under the spell of the music and walked in. A group of people had beat me there and sat on the couches or sprawled on the floor, listening to this wonderful music. The player was a short, fat freshman with stubby hands and even stubbier fingers. The chords sang out joyfully, proclaiming all that was great.

         There was something subtly strange about the music, but entranced though I was at the time I hardly took notice. However, being a musician myself it was something hard to ignore. The thought came back, persisting, begging me to listen closer to the music, to look beyond the happy chords and the pleasurable melody. Wearily, I obliged this nagging thought; I listened, and I listened, and I listened. And then I realized what it was that had provoked this thought. The song was happy, joyful, and carefree, yes; but it bore an utter lack of feeling, of deeper emotion. Intrigued, I walked out of the room while the others glared at me as if to say, “how rude, to walk out in the middle of such a splendid performance.” I ignored them and walked back to my dorm.

         It was just as I had suspected. The moment I was out of the influence of the music, the sense of joy left me. There was no lasting emotion. I found that I could not even recall to my mind what the melody was. I could remember nothing of the performance other than how happy I felt, and how I yearned to be back there, to sit and forget all my troubles amidst such music…

         And so I went back. It was all as I had left it, the group cloistered around the piano like hungry wolves, eager for the sense of elation the music would give them. And they were not disappointed. I took an open spot on one of the couches and instantly my life faded away. I forgot everything that had ever plagued me in the past. I remembered nothing of my past life; where I had come from, where I was going, and even my very name. I was no longer an individual but a part of a whole. I no longer thought independently, but thought as the music urged me to think. Occasionally, a sentimental memory would float to the surface of my mind, but the music would coax it back into the recesses of my brain just as quickly. “None of that now,” it urged, “Just be happy. Forget yourself, and be happy.” I was forgotten, I wanted to reply but the inability to think independently robbed me of this.

         Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by a desire to have my own thoughts, to be able to think freely. But the music, some part of me argued, the music says no. Listen to it. Become part of a whole. Why do you need to think on your own, we are telling you what to think. Isn’t it so much better this way? Where are all your cares now? They are gone, and you don’t ever have to worry about them again.

         I leaped to my feet and shouted, “NO!” And the spell was broken. The pianist stopped playing for a moment, shocked. The others started out of their limbo-like slumber and stared daggers into my very soul for interrupting such a peaceful dream. The others jumped up and forced me from the room. The door slammed shut behind me and I heard the dreamy piano start up again. But it was all wrong, and I knew it was wrong. Independent thought is absolutely vital. When you lose the ability to think on your own, you lose the ability to be anything other than a part of a whole. It is necessary for one to be mindful of his cares and problems, or they should go unsolved and he should remain at the same point all his life. When we become a part of a whole we become not people, but a crowd with animalistic desires. We allow ourselves to be bent to the will of the crowd, or whoever is controlling the crowd. We are told exactly what to think and how to think it, when we should be educating ourselves in independent thought and developing that part of our minds. We as humans are inherently unique, and nothing should take the uniqueness of ourselves away. It is all we have. It is what separates the human from the beast. It is what keeps the beast at bay in us. We become pleasure-seekers when we indulge in the promptings of society and, ultimately, the world. Hedonist becomes our title as we fall from grace.

         Thus strengthened, I developed a plan and walked confidently back into the lounge. Nobody looked at me, and if they had I doubted they would remember me. I stepped over bodies lying prostrate on the ground as if worshipping the hedonistic music. Summoning my courage, I tapped the Maker of the Crowd on the shoulder. He jumped and came out of his own dream and for the first time he made a mistake. This mistake was more jarring to the crowd than my exclamation earlier. They sat up, looking around themselves as if wondering how long they’d been there. All of them had that faraway look one gets when waking up in the middle of a dream. They seemed to question whether or not this was the dream, and a few of them even lay back down as if trying to get back into their reality. The player stood up, which isn’t saying much because his height didn’t improve too much compared to when he was sitting. He stood up and looked me in the eye, fury written in every feature. “What have you done?” he shrieked, “Everything I have worked for, all my music, a beautiful song, ruined!”

         And I looked down on him with the most contempt and disdain I have ever felt in my life. “Get out,” I said quietly, my voice rising in a crescendo, “Get out, you who has disillusioned the people. Get out, you who has brought a false security on the people. Get out, you who has caused them to believe that this life isn’t real. You, who have robbed them of their ability to think and reason on their own. You have been feeding them false truths to keep them happier. They deserve the whole truth, let them decide on their own if they should be happy or not. People are not meant to be told how to feel and what to think. They need to figure this out on their own. Independent thought is the sign of a healthy, educated mind, and no one should be robbed of the ability and potential to be that way.”

         He slunk out of the room, like a snake robbed of its prey. The others were truly waking up now. “Who was that?” they asked. I ignored them and sat at the piano and played my song.

         I called all my memories and emotions back to me, be they happy or sad, and let my fingers do the rest. There was joy in this song, like the other, but there was also pain. There was sorrow, a deep and unending sorrow reflecting all the sadness and pathos of this life. My melodies tugged at their hearts while my harmonies slowly tore them to pieces. My song encouraged intelligent, independent thought. It told them to look for something more than pleasure in life, to look for a true, deep, abiding love for all others. By the end of my song, for it was short, they were all of them in tears.

         I played the last note, and let it ring for a moment or so. I stood up from the bench, from that old upright piano, and observed my audience. I expected, I hoped to see them all changed. I wanted my music to have a positive effect, but to also wake them up to reality. Instead, I saw what I deemed the strangest looks on their faces: fear. They were scared, my music has frightened them. They had lived so long with the music telling them what to think and what to feel, that now that the prospect of doing all of that on their own frightened them. Tears rolled freely down their cheeks as they were suddenly exposed to the real world. At the mere thought of thinking and feeling on their own a desperate hysteria overtook them and a riot ensued. “Get out!” they screamed, “leave and never come back! Your music frightens us!”

         Dejected, I walked out of the room. As I reached the door, the original Maker of the Crowd opened it and pushed past me on the way to the piano. The crowd cheered as he started playing again and they were lolled back into their limbo. I walked back to my room, hoping I had planted a seed.