I met a person today, to use the medium of speech, written word or music or painting to describe her would be an insult to the near perfection that stood before me this morning. Speaking to her was like being born again, we found we had many likenesses and areas of interest that both cross our mental appreciation spheres in our minds. Although we only spoke for most of the day, it felt like we had connected, a link that was forged in the fire of our hearts; an unquenchable flame that could burn for ages if tendered and looked after properly.
To my great sadness, she was to be gone in the evening as her train arrived at and left the station not long after 7 o clock. So throughout my time with this celestial being, one Judas-like thought was tugging at my ever straining heartstrings, our impending separation. For the first time in a while, I felt like I had to keep her at all costs to stop her leaving, but I knew she had to catch it. Should I stay here in my house or try and find her? I feel like no distance at all can separate us, and deep down I know this is what I really want, but all this time of being sure of my feelings for her, not once had I even considered if the feelings were reciprocated let alone understood or received.
Love is a curious thing; it builds our hopes up, keeps them up and when it sees fit, destroys them before our very eyes. Yet we as people seek it out for the exhilaration and the thrill of the chase. I do not usually try and engage myself with the idea or topic of love as I know it will end badly; but once, just for once, I feel that it will not lead our hearts astray, the bond from me to her can only be made stronger if she had a similar bond with that which I felt. Her goddess-like face, her smile as beautiful as the sunset and her eyes as preciously stunning as gemstones, and her hair as flowing as the ever changing ocean; will ever haunt my dreams until I either win this angel and call her mine or feel the ice cold shard of rejection piercing my heart. For now, all I can feel is one feeling which fills my being, a feeling in the shape of a dove; a feeling so pure it is whiter than any white and as perfect as perfection itself.
Hope.
Monday, the 23rd of June, 2014
This weekend I decided to head down south, to spend some time with my parents, time to enjoy the sun and the heat which is seldom occurrent where I live, or at least not as nearly often as it happens where my parents live. Their house in the country was fairly large, with a room containing the piano of my childhood overlooking the garden. The garden was filled with trees, shrubs, flowerbeds; all containing abundant life and colour. The colour inspired me to write luxurious chords on the black beauty that is my parents upright piano.
I decided to wander down to the church where I used to be organist and held a short post of choirmaster, and before those, a chorister when I was even younger. Visiting these places of my childhood really struck at my very core, and provided me with a deep sense of strength. Upon entering the church and after having looked around at the intricate stained glass and shiny brass, I walked into the organ loft, took out the key from my keyring, and unlocked the doors. Opening the doors, I pressed the button to start the blower, pulled out a small selection of stops and played a chord.
The glorious and ground-shaking chords of the organ really reminded me of how much power can be held by the least powerful of people, hearing the ringing notes ringing around the church harked back to my memories of playing to packed Christmas services and hearing the united voices in song. When I left the church it was dark, but the music would not leave my head, so I went back to my parents house, cooked dinner, and picked up a book of the old bookcase in the hall. I settled into an armchair in the lounge with a cat on my lap and began to read.
I decided to wander down to the church where I used to be organist and held a short post of choirmaster, and before those, a chorister when I was even younger. Visiting these places of my childhood really struck at my very core, and provided me with a deep sense of strength. Upon entering the church and after having looked around at the intricate stained glass and shiny brass, I walked into the organ loft, took out the key from my keyring, and unlocked the doors. Opening the doors, I pressed the button to start the blower, pulled out a small selection of stops and played a chord.
The glorious and ground-shaking chords of the organ really reminded me of how much power can be held by the least powerful of people, hearing the ringing notes ringing around the church harked back to my memories of playing to packed Christmas services and hearing the united voices in song. When I left the church it was dark, but the music would not leave my head, so I went back to my parents house, cooked dinner, and picked up a book of the old bookcase in the hall. I settled into an armchair in the lounge with a cat on my lap and began to read.
Monday, the 16th of June, 2014
After having contemplated on my last meeting with the acquaintance I made, I decided to make a trip abroad from my study, into a break away from the menial tasks that surround my daily being. After having returned home, I packed a small change of clothes and the usual pen and manuscript. I tidied up the kitchen and turned in for the night.
The next morning, I awoke at dawn, and set off on my journey. Travelling through the many changes of scenery was particularly good for my soul which I feared had become tired of the monotony of working all day, every day from my study. Seeing the changing landscapes around me, from flat land, to lakes, to mountains and snow gave a renewed sense of purpose that I presumed I had previously lost.
My almost month-long sabbatical I spent in the lakes and mountains and valleys was a great relief to my musical being, taking inspiration from the rolling mountain-sides and peaceful lake-sides. This I would then take with me in my soul and write vast orchestral-scapes to reflect the grandeur and sublime power of the outdoors that only the mountains and lakes can afford to offer. I spent the days walking, pausing only for food, all the while taking in the beautiful and impressive vistas surrounding me. In the evenings I would cook for myself and write; spending the night times catching up on the sleep which I lose on the average working day.
At the end of the week, I packed up my belongings, left the warm cosy cottage, leaving the armchair by the fire to return to the plain and empty state that my soul and house exist. The country had offered a rest for my soul, providing me with the revitalisation of energy that I had so desperately needed. Upon returning, I inked up my scores which I had written in pencil in the mountains the month previously. After having toiled on this, I put down my pen, and once more placed the freshly inked papers onto the piles of paper which cover my study floorboards.
The next morning, I awoke at dawn, and set off on my journey. Travelling through the many changes of scenery was particularly good for my soul which I feared had become tired of the monotony of working all day, every day from my study. Seeing the changing landscapes around me, from flat land, to lakes, to mountains and snow gave a renewed sense of purpose that I presumed I had previously lost.
My almost month-long sabbatical I spent in the lakes and mountains and valleys was a great relief to my musical being, taking inspiration from the rolling mountain-sides and peaceful lake-sides. This I would then take with me in my soul and write vast orchestral-scapes to reflect the grandeur and sublime power of the outdoors that only the mountains and lakes can afford to offer. I spent the days walking, pausing only for food, all the while taking in the beautiful and impressive vistas surrounding me. In the evenings I would cook for myself and write; spending the night times catching up on the sleep which I lose on the average working day.
At the end of the week, I packed up my belongings, left the warm cosy cottage, leaving the armchair by the fire to return to the plain and empty state that my soul and house exist. The country had offered a rest for my soul, providing me with the revitalisation of energy that I had so desperately needed. Upon returning, I inked up my scores which I had written in pencil in the mountains the month previously. After having toiled on this, I put down my pen, and once more placed the freshly inked papers onto the piles of paper which cover my study floorboards.
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