He’s just one person among three thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine others; just one person in charge of one instrument among the rest. With such a big crowd, he often debates whether his hands and his voice really matter at all. Because when they all start playing in a four-thousand-part harmony, since each instrument is really one harmony, he thinks it shouldn’t matter if he stopped playing.
He can’t speak for others, but he thinks such a job can get tiring and tedious pretty quickly. It’s difficult to be in ‘the right mood’ all the time, kind of like trying to haul a donkey out of a well. He’s nervous, because he’s not sure whether it’s okay to feel like this from time to time. He’s not built to lie, so he’s afraid that his thoughts would eventually show on his face and push their way out of his mouth. And if it’s not okay, then who would be by his side to console him? Is he ever allowed to lose himself among the others, just because he feels like a number more than a person?
Regardless, he’s determined to find the right answer. So with each string he plucks, he tries to remember the reason why he’s been made, even if each pling is a question he’ll have to spend the rest of his life trying to answer.