People come and go in this world of ours. Some with which you’ve formed bonds of extreme strength and the severance is felt all the more intensely. Then at other times it can seem quite natural that you drift from certain relations. At this point in time I’m seeing my life as the playing of a master work of music. A piece of music, written by another hand, a spoken word of authority and existence.
This music has a melody that grows in strength and beauty with each passing day. It combines with many dancing harmonies, which play around, in and out of the work and contribute to its intricacies and intrigue.
When a harmony is played it sometimes takes a while for it to be heard. A whispering of similarly scattered notes played throughout the piece, at times so faint their significance is lost on the musician. At other points the harmony is given a place of pride and attention, maybe even before its due time. Does this mean I will miss out on its awesome crescendo? Or will I receive another chance to experience the thrill of plucking its richly strung notes in order to undergo its heralded climax?
This musician learns as she plays, sometimes stumbling over the bars provided, at other times playing with unnecessary gusto and bravado. Notes can be played with complete disregard for the composer’s genius, or even fail to resemble something of the writer’s intent.
Throughout the highs and lows of this piece called life, my melody is regularly called to play in sync with other master works. The interweaving of melodies can at times be a cacophony of unlikely notes that strangely make a lasting impression, sometimes one melody will carry the other, or hold up the dimly played notes that strain to produce a tune. There are many melodies that have been played with mine, and while all contribute to the unique flavour of my own, some provide the much required guidance my own playing lacks.
Maybe this melody of curves and distinct solo stanzas will one day be played beside another piece that exudes new strengths and direction, where the music flowing forth will become so intricately interwoven that listeners will say that it was meant to be.
Or perhaps this musician will continue to play alongside a host of others, yet a deep sorrowful solo note will resound.
Filed under: creative prose
Your eye is the lamp of your body. When your eyes are good, your whole body also is full of light. But when they are bad, your body also is full of darkness.
I am in a darkened room. A flickering flame is the sole means of light within this space. I cannot make out much other than the smooth hard surface on which the light stands. Yet as I gaze into the soft nothingness that surrounds I begin to see the dull outline of human forms. Their eyes peer back at me, searching, hungry. A number of these forms reach out and touch the fragile column of light. Its power is intensified and what I see is not beauty but tragedy itself. I know that at this point I could extinguish the flame and be rid of the sorrow before me, but as I look around I find that my soul is becoming further connected, engaged and involved with these beings. The reality is that I am far from the place where I could turn from them and forget.
