There hardly is a breath taken in; boundless in its transparent form where temperature congregates a stalemate between living and dead. A crunching of feet draws the composer away from the ground, which sparkles an array of dazzling neon lights that remind him closer to Paris night time extravaganza, than a mere blanket of shallow snow. Thin rows of it supporting his weight as he cautiously divides his footsteps in half; a precaution his companions seem to have not shared and left alone he fumbles with the ice blocks at the ready to his finger tips---with a price. What should have made him cringe and draw back surprise only numbed on in his journey; frostbite tickling his senses where blinding pain should have replaced it, and consequently a remedy to his infamous injury. Yet he did not make a peep; uttering meaningless scratches only slowed their progress and harbored ill to the remaining time he spent in this dream. Counting down the days here meant little to his real life self that in the end he gave up; pretending in the ‘now’ that time proved irreverent and ‘action’ remained absolute.
Slipping away from the crevices of the walls cool embrace he stumbled forward in the rocky terrain, relieved to see the surface beneath the snow. Somehow it calmed his frame of mind that he walked on a path where once in a blue moon he could distinguish its credibility and reconfirm his suspicions; pressing on. Little by little the route uncovered itself for a brief moment before once again hailed by the drizzling snow. Left to stand in it he watched the ground with a mixture of sorrow and loss. He’d tilt his hat faintly at this, shielding his eyes, windows to his soul that he doubted existed here, which craved his own reality like a bad English tea. Hair fell into place and the clothes sagged, signs of fatigue apparent.
When will it be over?
When will it end?
Can it end?
There is no answer, even in the silent words to the muffled wind trespassing over this snows gentle glamour. Even without an answer he knows better. There is no answer to ones existence; man themselves dedicated centuries of their lives to the question but none succeeded. Here he followed their pitiful example; worrying his fragile mortal body to the limits of one physical exertion to what? An imaginary world of fairytale? Chiding the very thought he abandoned it and descended the sudden slope over taking priority of his glazed eyes which in turn suffered the same fate as his thoughts. Everything around him spoke and breathed like him in a way he knew not possible. Like a canvass upon a kings mantle that displayed the richest scenery in all the land; anything a proud mortal would display at ready. Organically made and revered by subjects worldwide----that was the essence of what lay before him in the land of radiant snow.
There isn’t time to grab hold of the walls.
He slides forward.
Breath collapsing out of his lungs in alarm.
He is saved in his daring flight by a pair of hand encircling his thin form, giving him precious seconds to scramble his fingers in a blind panic to find assistance to quell the rages of his beating heart. Finding such handicap he emits a sigh of gratitude.
“I don’t need you to fall off the cliff at this point, my friend.” He catches as lock of golden hair and wonders how a prince is able to move so fast. He supposes the being is a manifestation of his proud homeland----subsequently the raven haired rebel leader is the muse of war, always close by. He finds them the intriguing pair after Polka for many different reasons than he’s ready to admit.
He doesn’t say his thanks; they take his quiet exterior and passing noise, which really was just that, as thanks.
The composer find this strange. So he asks while they are there, side by side.
“Aren’t you cold?”
He expects laughter to ruffle his abstract words, but they only turn to him with mild confusion. ‘How could he suggest that?’ it plainly read, but the young magic girl told him nothing was to be taken for granted as while this may be his imaginary world (which he was absolutely certain now, despite their doubts) they felt emotions like a real person. Careful time and time again he chooses his words to be gentle; invoking only praise and respect while shouldering the possibility of insanity. Two pairs of eyes regard him soundly. If they waited any longer there might not be time to catch up… They seem impervious to this fact and stall. He feels the cold worse than they, for the two are native to this weather. He envies them a bit at this, and cranes his hearing to tune in over the roars of wind following.
“Of course I am. He’s use to it so it doesn’t surprise me,” Andantino’s leader jerks his thumb to the prince, who is bashful in respect to his immortality while the snow batters them. Slowly his imaginary self blinks, stupefied. Logically that didn’t make sense. Yes but I’ll suck it up and walk despite being cold?
He drew his clothes tighter together. What folly thinking.
“Wait till the rain starts coming down.” One of them remarks, he cares not who. He figures this the equally snow dressed prince and looks up at the sky expectantly. Squinting at the clouds which have long since gathered together in a rebellion, like the war here was another manifestation of Poland’s crisis before his illness. He knits his brow together, sorry for this world. The two before him miss this and urge him forward with a gentle tug----the prince is guiding him while the rebel speaks. Youthful vocals melting his near forty year old heart.
“In the words of Baroque, it is referred to as ‘Cold Rain’.”
The older of the group arches a brow at this.
He raises a hand to his hat as something hits him. It is solid and hurts like a pin p***k. Loud at connection, and comes all at once.
All of a sudden he wants to laugh at their names for things but holds back with a smile not meant to provoke ill, and is glad his hat protects from the worst when he looks up.
“Freezing rain, huh? The essence of purity of this vast mountain of snow and ice. It is a beautiful thing with an unfitting name. The way it falls so graceful----breaking into a million pieces upon contact is like watching a million hopes in front of me dashed away in a blink of an eye. To gaze at this in a dream world is incredible; moments like these where I am from were hard to enjoy while so ill. I could only appreciate it from a distance, miserably alone. When I was well enough, it had disappeared the moment I gathered courage to experience it. Funny how things turn out when I get to see it at long last…” he murmurs this, and is given glances from his imaginary companions. They neither thought him strange or doubted his words.
After all.
Here in this fantasy of make believe.
Frederic Francois Chopin made the best of it.
Jisnair Community Member 
|
|
