The Whispering Star
Beneath the souls of the somber ether, those that howl to the cosmos with far more promise than I (naiveté had claimed and, thus, blinded them of what is true), my dwelling sat eerily still, pierced only by the faint glimmer of a bereft moon; its silence was often broken by the occasional drum of a car engine, but not a single vehicle had driven by all night. And so while the pleasure of my fallacious company could not entertain me for the evening (do not be fooled, the sun had bid its farewell an astounding seven hours ago), there lay the barren shell of my esse, once enveloped by the infancy of smug delight — now decaying under the blistering shroud of dark.
In the corner of my settled prison rested an aged piano, virgin, unscathed by touch for eternities on end that it had lapsed its own creation. I could not bring myself to look at it; what tragic instruments they are to us! In them are the stars, yet sheathed they remain by the flames of lust, never to be wholly mastered nor heard by man; it is a demoralizing thought. Such are most things in this life, I suppose.
“Do not destroy what cannot be rebuilt. That is the ultimate sin against yourself and fellow man,” my father once told me prior to his death, and yet it appears that I have done quite the opposite to myself. I often wonder: was there ever hope for a doomed being, a “vanishing candle?” Does there not exist a path to rise from the bed of a cursed wishing well? Likely so. Perhaps I should not be so pessimistic, but these fears continue to poison my every thought. I, then too, must question if that is why I have not ridden myself of the damned piano. Is it that I fear abandoning my remaining oath of expression? The only affirmation of my presence? A quick glance, and back my weary eyes raced to the callous floorboards. Grudgingly, I lifted myself from the bare mattress and sauntered towards the unsuspecting instrument as though it was an old acquaintance. Unveiling the beast, I looked down at the black and white ivories and began —
A grand symphony of hieroglyphic bliss filled the room. Beyond the nonsensical slur of keys, I found the harmonies of love and suffering — deafening chords for either senses. My fingers danced across the seven immutable octaves as though gates of heaven, awakening in me the terrifying excitement of faith; of fortune. At last, I sensed the sun emerging from its throne. Nearly numb at the fingers, I continued to play the arrangement of life: a string of chaos followed by confusion — and for a moment, I thought I heard the slightest strain of beauty. I played on.
