There is nothing more thrilling than feeling yourself get lost in a beautiful piece of music.

I push my foot down on the pedal to change the sound of the last note of Yiruma's When the Love Falls. While I stand up, I hear an uproar from the auditorium full of people beside me. I turn and bow to them. It is my first successful concert outside of Korea without my teacher. I usually need her to help me get to and from the piano, but I promised everyone at home that I would prove I could do whatever I put my mind to. This concert represented that confidence.

I walk off the stage and come face-to-face with a brick wall. I scowl and hiss under my breath, glad I'm out of eyesight of the audience. Soon, I reach my room. It features furniture with corners covered in bubble wrap; waist-high furniture to avoid tripping; and soft, easy-on-the-feet rugs and carpet. It was not by my request, rest assured. If there is anything I hate more than being catered to, it is the idea that other people think they know what is best for me, especially when they have never experienced the world of blindness themselves.

I sigh and take a seat on the couch, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. A little rest after a performance is my favorite way to replenish my energy, even though it is not much. After a few minutes, I stand up and head over to the closet to change out of my clothes. My hand brushes over something solid and I almost brush it off, but it is warm, like a human body. My nose decides to kick in a little late. That is when I realize there is a light musk in my room that was not there before.

"Who are you?" I ask threateningly, backing up slowly so I do not fall.

No one answers, but I hear scuffling like they are leaving my room. I yell for security, but I guess the culprit is gone before they get here because they wonder what is going on without actually taking action for an intruder alert. "Never mind," I mumble, reaching for my clothes again. "I guess it was just my imagination."

~~~

I hated growing up blind because everyone treated me like a baby. There was nothing more irritating than knowing I could do stuff myself, but having everyone else doubt that I could pour a bowl of cereal without assistance. (Granted, I spilled it the first few times, but I got the hang of it once I was older and could reach the countertop.) The same problems happened in school. I wanted to be put into a regular school, but my parents decided to enroll me in a braille-only educational system. Once I entered college, though, everything changed.

Since my parents had me practice piano every day, I grew more and more familiar with the feeling of the keys under my fingers, leading me to eventually play everything purely by memory. I practiced so much there were few songs I did not know how to play. I played by ear, too. Songs on the radio and the television that played constantly became my new motivation: if I could learn to play them in less than a few hours by listening to them over and over, then I would apply for Gwangju University, one of the greatest music schools in my country. I made it. It was the single greatest day of my life.

Now that I perform in music halls and in front of large crowds, I understand how idols must feel. The only difference I will never understand is being able to physically see them and their reactions. Yes, I hear them, but I think seeing them would be the most beautiful thing.

For now, I will take baby steps towards my new dream: being able to see. To me, that will be the most beautiful music.