The Undying Song

The different perspectives of music

To hear that slight alleviation as the musician draws a breath whilst the hilt is still clasped to their mouth. Eyes closed, being swept away by the music, that small murmur shows what they really are, that they are more than extensions of the carved wood. It comes, here and there, forming a new song entirely. Each player taking that essential breath, oblivious to the intakes of their company. A melody of inhales and exhales.

With a final rush the composition dies, and the breaths finally meet as one. That ending gale of air.

As bodies rise and hands meet he remains, the lone person still resting against the chair. Eyes closed, listening to the song not yet finished. The song that will never finish. Some deep some short, lessening over time. Crescendos rising, sharps falling.

Hands stop and feet begin. Instruments are taken from the stage in the clasp of their riders. Their breaths leave with them, but the song continues. Out there, they are still breathing, their lungs still moving. The song will never finish.

People are pushing past his knees. His eyes open, seeing the empty stage, the swift movements of the audience. He joins their ranks, a young woman easily letting his ragged body in. He wishes to give his thanks, but dares not let his breath mix with the sacred air of the musicians. As his foot steps over the threshold he turns to give her his gratitude. She’s not there.

The musicians are somewhere, maybe packing up their treasure into chests. Whilst they believe the song has finished, he knows it has not. Breaths will last forever in the air, slipping between another.

Just as the music will.

 

Arms thrust high the musicians labour across their bows, stripping sound into the air. Feet tap, heads bob, each uncontrollably. Hands clasped they are connected to the wood, it a latter part to them. Their movements themselves are a song. Flying high in a melody then rushing swiftly to reach the forte. All around their bodies sway, twisting, turning, a melody of arms. No pause as their uproar continues.

With a final rush the composition dies, and the bodies finally rest to meet as one. A bend in the waist, then arms once again rushed into a cacophony of irregularity. As bodies rise and hands meet she remains, the lone person still resting against the chair. Eyes open, watching the song not yet finished. The song that will never finish. Some swift, some slow, lessening over time. Crescendos rising, sharps falling.

Hands stop and feet begin. Shuffles with wood steal sight to the foreground. Their movements leave with them, but the song continues. Out there, they are still moving, their bodies still breathing. The song will never finish.

People begin to rise. She joins with them, pausing a moment to let a ragged man slip from his seat. Out in the free-bound row she stops, taking on last glance at the stage. The stage that accompanied the song. One musician ran on, a forgotten bow taking to his hand. Quietly retreating back to the shadows, he finishes his solo.

The musicians are somewhere, maybe packing up their treasure into chests. Whilst they believe the song has finished, she knows it had not. Movements will last forever in air, slipping between another.

Just as the music will.

 

The old man makes his way onto the pushing street. It takes but a moment for him to become disgruntled, losing his way amongst the crowd.

“Excuse me, could you use some help?” He turns to find the same young woman from before standing politely beside him. “You look a bit lost.”

“I think I am. Just too many people.” He mutters.

“Where are you trying to get to?”

He tells her. She links her arm in his, and turns him in the other direction.

“You could’ve ended up at the moon walking this way,” she laughs.

He sees joy in her laugh, an easy laugh that has found something to be happy for.

He begins to talk about the concert, knowing she was there.

“Oh I didn’t pay much attention to the music,” she admits.

 

The next concert, sitting side by side, the music plays. Eyes open, the man watches the movements. Eyes closed, the woman listens to the breath. Both minds open, they each see what they never saw before. A melody of music, put together to create the perfect song.

 

Reviews

[Marie]

Great story. I loved reading about the music. And how well these people fit together, as notes into a chord.