Life in the Breath of a Song
...And when he picked up that violin he played with the glory of triumphant heroes returning. The grace of a ballet dancer returning for the encore. And within the spell of that song he told his entire story. The poverty of his birth. The misfortunes of anonymity and the struggles for this success. He played, and the entirety of her life seemed to come alive. It seemed that all those 60 years she has lived for just this one moment--when he would play and she would forget everything else.
Age, propriety and time seemed to disappear. As the chords hummed to the strokes of his youthful fingers she lost the grey that coloured her hair, the lines that defined her face. She was ageless. As young as him. He as old as her.
It was a wave. A wave of love. Under which she drowned, gladly losing the last breath of sanity, maturity and rationality. Under it she was swallowed, comforted by the bleakness of unrequited love. It was a canvas on which she would paint a rosy picture for her days remaining. Rendering it prettier through the coloured paints of time and distance.
...And there he stood. Oblivious.
His was love too. But a different love. The notes of his affection played to a different tune. She was his saviour. His mother figure.
...And yet, for her, even that was enough. She supped full on the knowledge that though different he did care. A drowning line that she could hold on to. It was still a feeling--something that filled her. That was enough. She would live with it gladly. The memories, even if just hers, would hold forever.
Age, propriety and time seemed to disappear. As the chords hummed to the strokes of his youthful fingers she lost the grey that coloured her hair, the lines that defined her face. She was ageless. As young as him. He as old as her.
It was a wave. A wave of love. Under which she drowned, gladly losing the last breath of sanity, maturity and rationality. Under it she was swallowed, comforted by the bleakness of unrequited love. It was a canvas on which she would paint a rosy picture for her days remaining. Rendering it prettier through the coloured paints of time and distance.
...And there he stood. Oblivious.
His was love too. But a different love. The notes of his affection played to a different tune. She was his saviour. His mother figure.
...And yet, for her, even that was enough. She supped full on the knowledge that though different he did care. A drowning line that she could hold on to. It was still a feeling--something that filled her. That was enough. She would live with it gladly. The memories, even if just hers, would hold forever.
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