By Carly Marks
He couldn’t hear her. He couldn’t hear anyone. He swiftly marched on a path straight as an arrow – surrounded by his own muffled voice trembling its way through intense patches of fog. The voice whispered the language of his heart, if he were ever so inclined to translate the words drowned by the music playing peacefully in the background. Sometimes, the voice told him to go up, sometimes down; other times he acted upon instinct without listening to the voice at all.
This is when he skewed from his course, although never for long. He was intent on walking the line with the swift tune as his road map and the voice his compass – pointing him in the direction of what he believed were his dreams. This particular young man did not seem to fancy hearing the words his heart conveyed, rather preferring it solid and silent. Allowing the voice to enter his soul was his darkest nightmare, persuading him to travel a direction that could lead him to his absolute fear, himself.
He envisioned he had the power to determine his destiny. He believed his fate was in his hands. Trying to make it all happen, he orchestrated his own symphony per se. He wanted so badly to devise this flawless fairytale ending; one that answered each and every one of his burning questions and desires, and left him yearning to live life with a perfect balance of zest and ease. He wished for everything and nothing at the same time; wasn’t specific with his prayers, he wanted it all. It was dangerous to want everything, for a wise man knew that one must be careful what he wished for.
He thought he was simple; wrongly assumed he wished for only that which a stereotypical man would desire. He wanted the kind of ending, where the prince carries his princess over the threshold while escaping the evils of the world – the kind where he conquers the monstrous villain single-handedly. The villain turns into a million dollars, and they live happily ever after. He hoped for the kind where the world revolved, around him, and the princess complied by following his lead, while staring inquisitively into his eyes, entranced by their hypnotic spell.
Time passed and life changed abruptly. He barely recognized that the world continued to exist around him – like scenery speeding by a bus window, while sitting motionless, watching as the blurs that were once his former jobs, ex-lovers, and ghosts of himself disappeared in the distance. He was on his own path; moving so fast he could not touch the wilderness, as the images cascaded past the glass at a velocity he was unable to absorb; he boldly marched on.
Music played in the background; illustrating the life he was living, representing the tale he was afraid to sing. Dancing in sumptuous spectacles, the voice spoke fluently above the music, aiming for acceptance by the exclusive drums of his ears. He marched on, to his own beat, ignoring most of the beautiful words, solely seeing sights he wished to see, and wholly hearing hymns he wished to hear.
All the while, there was this lady, listening. She could feel the melody of his song and she heard his heart with hers. She had been listening for years, transcending time and space. She wondered when the moment would arrive that he might sing the words with grace and passion. She would give anything for him to realize that a pleasant tune is soothing, but lyrics are what make a song memorable, meaningful, and real.
The listening lady’s voice was melodic and her demureness contagious. The beauty of her music flourished in the day and dramatically portrayed the night. Its unique lyrical composition was the precise prose needed to compliment his harmony – bringing his symphony to a peaceful closure and his audience rising to a standing ovation. The foundation of his heart lay in her music, the way her words flowed; one beat of her heart, one stroke of a string, and one breath of her voice at a time.
His composition was sweet-sounding enough to keep him gliding along a serene street, although it had always been the prose causing this lady, listening intently, to feel a bit worrisome. While the music was tuneful and appropriate, the lyrics were scattered, dispersed, whirling through the air like particles, scintillae he perceived to be dust. He swept them aside, as if the words of his heart didn’t matter; the molecules collecting ubiquitously, creating an atmosphere so dense it could not be displaced.
Fairytale endings happened seldom anymore: there was little time for music or dancing, chivalry blew in the wind. Fantasy seemed an entity unknown to an average man, and dreaming; a rare luxury one would be ever so fortunate to stumble upon, that is, if time were available to so much as consider. Nevertheless he had a variety of glorious distractions awaiting his leisure, whilst the instrumental masterpiece continued to play in the background of his tiny yet magical realm.
If he one day converged the language of his heart, would he have a fascinating story to tell? If he translated the exact notes his chords conveyed, could his symphony be complete with precision? If the listening lady stopped taking note of his heart, a keen wonder, screaming for an essence of love and devotion, would it continue to whisper the words softly above the sound of the music? Unending time would be the soul answer to this simple man’s fairytale. His weeping heart palpitated to its very own drum, through the dense fog, whirling wind, and passing scenery; he marched on.
About Carly Marks