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The Philharmonic
By≠paleink
A calm turn in the midnight is just raising and moving itself with the retreat of violent wind
and rain. He lifts a thick candle and paces his step on to the bottom of the boat in
solitude in such a solitary evening, such a solitary lake. Here the boat preparation
for him, for the departure of his life journey, waiting. The secretive
darkness and dampness is stroking his face, still chilly, but slightly.
Suddenly, the sounds of the melody flow to his ears, tentatively and plaintively bulging
into a mountainous mass, the grey fog twists inside the hug of the sounds. It
is a vale of soothing where the feeling is beaten down, immensity.
The waves of the notes fling and hurl itself high so restful which seems to touch the
evening sky and finally settle for down and sweep those tangled cluster of mountains
and plains and lakes, up and down, lingering around.
The sounds drift and then settle on the edge of the boat, lowered and raised, hover
around. He feels being closed in. His soften glance flicks through crystal water,
silvers of silver moonlight shadow in ripple on ripple. He senses the trickle of the
warmth dripping through his palms, soften into mild and happy comfort.
In the distance few of comings and goings of beauties through the panting of cars hurry
past. Flying sleeves like flowing water are shift, flashing Chinese ancient
opera is changing. Pear blossom flip over drizzle tears ticking off down at the
edge of the theatre floors where they are retreating, quietly but steadily, swinging
away out of sight, out of the crowded and bustling town, soon plunging into the inky
empty alleys. The place, the old world is now ebbing steadily, far away. For an
instance, he pauses and halts to turns his head back, the last glance looking
across the lake, irresistibly. And again he feels a distraction at the heart of his.
Some distance away, at the bank of the lake, the moonlit perches on the pear blossom
tree to watch down: the trees are in bloom, thickening with the fresh pink petals
coiled the branches, a gesture of splendour; beneath the flower of moon-shadow
hidden and shaded; and the patternless dappling of the evening-shadow dance
under the calm sky.
This sudden backward glance leaving an ever-lasting story of the past, of the years, now
she catches and carries such glance at the Gate of Flashbacks in her eyes, in her
minds even, and in her blood to memorise.
The passing of a glance, of a sound follows her night after night, day after day…, it goes
on ringing.
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