The pianist was busy weaving a new symphony. Nature forgot to move ahead, lost in his magic; the life stood still. Lost in his creation he kept on playing. After sometime, as if to free nature from its spell, he stopped. He stopped and opened his eyes; the hall was empty, yet he could feel that it was not he alone who was crying. His tears soaked his cheeks, yet his broad shoulders and strong chest was dry.

It was a sunny winter afternoon, when the Artiste promised his master creation that she would always get a shoulder to rest her tired head. He promised her that she would always get the shelter of his chest to hide and wont let her tears fall on ground. And then, never she wept alone.

But it was an afternoon long past, now the shoulder is empty and the chest dry. He wondered, does he need a head that can rest on his shoulder or is it a shoulder that he needs? Should he get a paper to treasure his tears or should he find a canvas to paint again? The night moved on, as the pianist lay tormented, he had to decide. While the Artiste wanted to go back to his painting days, the Pianist demanded a place for his tears. The artiste has ruled for decades, now it’s the Pianist’s time to get his share. Yet the Artiste was longing for the shoulders that were never alone. The twins fought inside.

The morning sun jumped northward from the green shoreline, and the pianist ventured out to get his papers. He went out as a schoolchild, to get the softest and best papers possible. He didn’t tell the world how much he knows about papers, how many times he has already filled them with his musings. He sought out to select the best of the lot. He decided to try them, to seek only the best.

He selected three, three best with different colors. He was happy as he sat to fill them with his tears. He tried to summon the oceans within him, to pour his heart out. The notes started to come out. He wanted to amaze the world with the amount of pain he collected.  But it was his turn to be surprised. The papers had their own life, every time he tried to add a new word, they emanated a flurry of tones of their own; tones that sang grief. Every drop of tear that he tried putting on them unleashed a flood that swept his shoulders. The papers clung to his shoulders and chest. The Artiste was smiling, the Pianist sat dumbfound, looking at the losing battle.

The pianist realized, it’s not his kingdom where he stood; the Artiste also had a realization, it’s not his time anymore. It was time to move on, it was time to leave the mantle to the new king – the ‘Shoulder Bearer’. They moved back as the new king ascended the throne; he took the oath to extend his shoulder to all those grieving hearts, moist sighs and grappling hands. He took on the journey to seek those, lying in darkest corners of life, to sooth, love and make them ready to fight another day.