Gymnopédie No. 1 but your depressed neighbor don't stop playing that song for an hour in a row

thats me, im the neighbour

POV: you’re in love with the piano man in a classy restaurant, you can only afford to sit outside, and this time it’s raining, but seeing him throw the window and slightly hearing his piano play is enough for you.

I lost myself trying to please everyone, now im losing everyone while trying to find myself.

The original creator of this song actually struggled with alcohol and he had trouble with women. He died alone, his friend being the one actually showing off his music after his death. It captures him so well.

POV: you're a rat in the sewers as rain pours down. you end up in a french restaurant owned by a chubby man named auguste gusteau. you control a man named linguini by pulling his hair. you team up and become one of the most memorable chefs out there.

plot twist: you killed your neighbors and left the music on so no one would hear

I’m the lonely neighbour who plays depressing music on my piano all day secretly hoping people hear it when they pass by and enjoy it for just a moment, and in that moment there is a brief bit of connection between us. I pour my soul into every piece hoping that someone can hear it. There’s no one left anymore.

It’s funny to me that whenever there are two musicians living near each other, they always have some way of communicating to each other through music, despite not knowing each other at all. I play piano, and have a neighbor, who lives just above, who does too. Whenever they hear me play a melody, they start playing a similar melody, as if to say hi, and I do the same to them. Sometimes, when I see a person in the elevator, I wonder: “Could this be the one that’s always made me feel better on all those lonely nights?”

plot twist: you don't have neighbors.

Everyone in the comments needs to write a book.

I am listening to this as I watch my granny sleep. I am her hospice worker. I have lived with her my whole life and she is the last bit of heritage I have. My mom was always away and I didn’t have a dad. So she is what I had as a parent figure. she has stopped talking, eating, moving. Drinking. She only sleeps now. I believe she has a day left to live. This song is comforting, she was a art historian so everything about this video was in some what melancholic

POV: you're the neighbour Paris, 1924. Hours and hours' worth of noise and jazz slowly dwindled into nothing but a tired, empty silence that came after the highs of temporary happiness. Mademoiselle Reedley of 114 didn't throw parties at all that often, but whenever she did, it was loud, explosive, and lasted well into the ungodly hours of the night. This was Paris, after all, it's what the poets come here for. A good time, and an endless flow of champagne. It was a laughable, almost sad contradiction to my own flat, which was a little too quiet for my own liking sometimes. I'd play my old piano at unimaginably late times, too, but only when I could not bear the silence that took over whenever I finally settled into bed. Just exactly as it did now. I found myself getting out of bed and opening the doors of my balcony, hoping there weren't any smokers on hers. It was a thing I did, almost like a routine so imbedded into my head that my body simply started acting of its own accord before it sat itself down on the stool in front of my piano, fingers on the keys as though they've already decided what to play long before I could think of something. There was once a time when I didn't mind the silence at all, when I would much rather happily coexist with it rather than let anything disruptive interrupt me from exploring my own worlds in the books that served me better than any company in the world. The war had a different effect on all of us. It made me despise the silence that I used to like so much, tricking my brain into thinking I was sixteen again in the trenches, coming to terms with my own mortality as I held my breath, praying the enemy soldiers would decide to step in a different direction. My fingers flew across the keys, slowly, my sleepless mind making everything seem even slower. Satie. It had been my mother's favourite before she passed, although I could never understand why she liked such a lonely piece. She always used to say she found a certain kind of beauty in loneliness, but I could never find it myself. I guess finding that beauty was always easier when you didn't know how heartbreaking true loneliness could be. "Merde!" A clang, followed by a snort and a giggle erupted from the other side of the wall that I shared with Mademoiselle Reedley of 114. Despite it being two in the morning, I wasn't surprised she still had company this late. Poets tend to live without limitations, especially when it came to their merriment and liquor, and by the amount of laughter and shattered glass and dull thuds against the walls a few hours prior, it seemed as though she had every poet in Paris in her apartment. Another giggle had passed, accompanied by slightly more distant ones that joined it. I could hear the person stagger, heavy-footed on the hardwood flooring, possibly wearing exactly one heeled shoe, judging by the shoe swinging by a singular strap on one of the decorative hooks on the railing of my balcony. How it got there, I had no idea. Perhaps I'll leave it on her doorstep by morning, just in time for the owner to find it. I kept playing, doing anything to keep it going, to fill the empty silence that I hated so much until I was content enough to go back to sleep. I drifted into my own little world, where I was six again, seated on the stool with my mother, her hands guiding mine across the piano in the little stone house by the sea where I grew up. A sharp knock cut though the music, interrupting my thoughts. The lovely image that I had fell apart in seconds, leaving me with a heavy feeling that I didn't have enough time to prepare for, given how abrupt those knocks were. A woman greeted me when I opened the door, looking almost embarrassed despite her incredibly drunk state, holding on to my doorframe to keep herself from falling over. "Bonjour!" she says, grinning nearly mindlessly at me. Ah, English. Wrong greeting, but she had the right intention. She was pretty, but rather tiny, and just as I had thought, missing her right shoe. Must be one of Mademoiselle Reedley's fellow foreign poet friends. She stared at me for a few seconds with an empty smile, as though she were daydreaming, muttering something under her breath that I couldn't understand before momentarily coming to her senses with a shake of her head. "Er, I swear I was to retrieve something from here." She blinked, slowly, furrowing her eyebrows in momentary confusion. I fiddled with the end of my sleeve. It was a strange kind of awkward, being stared at. New, but awkward. I've always done my best to blend into the rest of the background to avoid interaction, to be something that people's eyes would simply gloss over as though I didn't exist. I hadn't expected anyone to come looking for a shoe until morning, and yet she was here, staring me down in the dim lighting of the hallway half barefoot and her hair a mess. "Your shoe?" I offered, letting out a small breath I didn't realise I'd been holding. "Ah, yes. My shoe." Her dark eyes closed in realisation, as I moved to retrieve her shoe from my balcony almost a little too hastily, my palms sweating at the sight of her standing in my doorway. The irony of me wallowing in loneliness while dreading interaction nearly made me laugh, until I stopped myself. It wouldn't be polite to, she might think I'm laughing at her for losing a shoe. "Merci." She says with a hum, steadying herself against the doorframe once more as she put it on, leaving the straps undone as though she didn't care to lose it a second time. "I'm Reedley. I didn't catch your name." Reedley? She was Reedley? I thought Reedley was the older woman that smoked in the balcony every once in a while. I had to stop myself from taking a sharp breath, swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat instead. "Lagarde." "Isabelle! Cherie, I think I found your shoe!" a yell pierced through the thin walls, followed by another thud. "Never mind, it's Zelda's." Mademoiselle Reedley snorts as she stifles a giggle while letting go of my doorframe, before stumbling back to her door beside mine. One blink of an eye and I knew she'd already forgotten my name. It was hilarious how it happened just as quick as I thought it would. I let out a breath when I finally shut my door, securing the locks as my heart hammered in my chest. She wouldn't remember this. That's right. She was far too drunk to remember anything. The quiet was back as I mindlessly made my way back to my piano. Something in me wished she'd remember my name in the morning, but then again she'd momentarily forgotten she'd lost a shoe just moments before. My fingers flew over the keys once more, playing the same piece as though I never stopped, dulled laughter coming from the other side of the wall that covered a glimpse to a life far more different than mine.

i play piano and my dad was never musically inclined so he would print off songs that he wanted me to play, this was his favorite :,)

POV: You're at home, sitting at your computer listening to this and reading the comments section.

he's playing that song again. over and over it plays, across the hallway, your neighbor sits at his piano and plays the same song again. or at least, you think it's him playing. you've only ever seen the piano once, but that was a long time ago, when he first moved in. it was only him at the time, could only mean hiring some movers was too expensive for him, and you would have offered to help if you were any nicer. but you aren't. and you didn't know him, (still don't, not really.), and it's not like you owe him anything, so yeah. only once and you don't know if he even plays. but the song vibrates throughout his home loudly, loud enough for it to travel against the walls, all the way to your own unit. and it's.. pleasant, if not only a little bit annoying. and if he really is playing, hitting all those keys again and again and again, then it's gotta be annoying for him too, right? playing until your fingers bleed? it's gotta be rough. but he never seems to stop. you wonder what could compel a person to keep going in such a rigorous way, but then again it's not your place to wonder. let him play and remember the days when life treated him better, for all you care; it starts to rain again, fourth time this week. that's getting annoying too. he doesn't stop. it's staring to feel like the rain hitting your windows mimics the melody too. whatever. at least it sounds good.

this song, to me, feels like a gentle, tender embrace. a soft sorrow in the back of my mind that threatens to rip me apart if i focus on it for too long. the bitter knowledge that we don't have much time left together. grief for something that hasn't yet come to pass.

Aren’t we all the depressed neighbor at some point

if anyone’s wondering, the painting is called “Almond blossom” by Van Gogh!

POV: Montmartre, 1888. you live in front of the house of a strange man called Erik Satie, he is outside most of the time but today is raining so he decides to stay at home and compose this piece.

When I was younger, the sound of classical music sickened me. I am only 13 years old, yet this reaches so much in me. This touches every feeling I have, it pierces straight tgrough my skin and vibrates my bones. It is where I find peace. It makes me happy cry. Sad cry. Angry cry. Weird cry. Love cry. And as such a young soul, for this type of music to have reached out to me in this way, it's almost breathtaking. I've met nobody that shares my interest in such beautiful pieces. it's quite sad. But it's also happy, as I feel it was made just for me and me alone. I have such an amazing form of self love. I'm not quite self centered but I started loving myself and this is the music that started that for me. This is what saved me. So to every composer. To every person who has played even a single piece on piano; I want to thank you. You saved my life. You reach out to many wandering souls including me. You should be proud. And to everyone; love yourself like I love myself, it is the most beautiful thing I have discovered. And I have many years to go in life. Thanks for getting to the end. I love you. I'm proud of you. Have a good day.