music

Flight

Violins.
A play in reversal.
The last tea.
Sunshine dripping through the windows.
Clinking of spoons and tea cups.
Violins.
Jacket hugging the chair–picked up,
Footsteps on the wooden floor.
Footsteps following the footsteps.
Violins.
Last day, last night.
Last dance in a quick time lapse,
Violins – bringing back the last 10 years.
Dropped tea cups
Screams and cries
on the thirtieth floor
at 12 am,
blinded by the lights of the skyline.
Violins, hugs and sobs.

Violins

embraces, trembling waves, goodbyes.
Violins
Flights late at night.
Violins,
Farewells,
and never ending sighs.

Violins

Footsteps in another land.

Violins
Nostalgia, pain and frights.

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Wait (Boston)

It had been an hour.

In the light of the sun, is there anyone? Oh it has begun…

The rain continued. Only it looked more like continuous showers than unpredicted rain. The street had been drenched, the puddles had formed already. Only the water in those puddles was clear as crystal.

His eyes were fixed right in front of his car—on a newly formed puddle of water. The puddle kept receiving more rain. The drops created those ripples that he had always enjoyed watching as a child. The ripple would spread wider and wider, until another drop fell at exactly the same place and the ripple would start all over again. It was like the ticking of time—only time would fly a little slower than the falling drops of rain. This wasn’t like back home.

You don’t know me, you don’t even care, oh yeah, she said…

He turned on the car’s wipers for a hundredth time when the visibility became zero again. He had to wait. He told himself. For the last time, before he left. The decision had already been made. He did not know whether it was only him who had made the decision. Yet he wished, hoped that it could change. Only one sincere request, one wishful phrase was needed to make him stay. After all this time.

Essential yet appealed, carry all your thoughts across
An open field,
When flowers gaze at you… they’re not the only ones who cry
When they see you

He almost heard the footsteps reaching, splashing through the rain, running towards the direction of his car. It was incredible that he could hear, despite the loud melancholy music. He lunged forward, almost opening the door of his car.

But he had been dreaming—in the daylight. It was not his fault. He had hardly slept for the past 48 hours. And in his defence, it was not ‘daylight’ as one would call. 3 pm as it may be, but it was as dark as a 6 o’ clock winter evening in London.

He wished the door of the front yard would open now. It had been too much to take. It could not wait much longer.

But he didn’t dare go towards the door himself. That required killing his ego for a thousandth time. He would not be able to face those eyes if he knocked the door. He would have to kill himself for the rest of his life. But more than that, those eyes would never forgive him for it. He had not forgotten the look in those eyes the last time he had tried to approach.

So he waited.

I think I’ll go to Boston…
I think I’ll start a new life,
I think I’ll start it over, where no one knows my name,
I’ll get out of California, I’m tired of the weather,
I think I’ll get a lover and fly’m out to Spain…

Why was there so much redundancy in his life? He thought as the song kept playing in the background. It had been on repeat since his two hour long drive from college.

Perhaps it talked about him. It matched so much. And yet it was so different from his own situation. He tried to keep quiet and concentrated on the rhythm of the piano. He needed peace within himself.

I think that I’m just tired
I think I need a new town, to leave this all behind…
I think I need a sunrise, I’m tired of the sunset,
I hear it’s nice in the Summer, some snow would be nice… oh yeah

The rain continued with occasional thunder. The ripples still formed. The piano kept playing. The puddles were larger than ever. The water seeped through his window and fell on his jacket. Summers had never been so cruel.

 

Until he saw the door of the front yard, at his far right side open.

 

(Feb 26, 2014)

Music is?

Music is sweet. It lets you listen to magic in the chirpings of birds, that would otherwise have been rhyme-less tweets.

Music is painful. It makes you go back to those old moments when that music played and the moment took place.

No matter how happy the moment was, it makes you cry because it happened and cannot be brought back.
And it would make you cry for the excruciating moments that took place when that music played.

And well, you can’t do anything about it.

If only, you could erase those memories?

And now, whenever, wherever, that music would play, it would bring back all those memories whether they brought joy or made you cry, they would send you back in the sands of time.

I said music was painful.

Because it brings the state of ecstasy, any level lower than that-a state understated and it would pierce your heart. Because it’s easier to glide a step further, but the fall is what is most agonizing.

 

You say music is inspiring.

Yes, it’s one of the perceptions. A way of looking at things.

But I’d rather say it’s a clue to find what you might have lost. Or a guide to help you get to destiny.

Not an end in itself but a means to an end.

I found nature more appalling-with music. Music became a complimentary element, adding tunes to the moods of life, making me appreciate the symphony that it made.
Thus music wasn’t a destiny, nor was nature, rather it established a staircase to the road towards an initially unknown end that finally became the destiny.

In the tunes of nature, the rhythm of the drops of rain, the late night chirping sounds of crickets, the harp that was played somewhere far away that made me question the existence of such magic; I found something I had lost while I wandered.

I found Him.
I found God.

They tell me I might be committing a huge mistake. Something that is prohibited can’t help you find your destiny.

I feel guilty, and so even though I could have been happy, my heart is never content.

I’d told you, music was painful.

 

Epilogue–

“One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.” ―Bob Marley