There! There it was again.
That haunting strain of music making me go to the window time and time again, pulling aside the blinds, trying to find a glimpse of the hand that was strumming the guitar in that addictive rhythm, scrunching my face in something akin to frustration laced with pain when I could not, pulling myself up on the window sill, hunching up next to the open window with my arms tight around my knees pulled up tight to my chest, my head resting on the wall behind tilted towards the music. Why! Why can’t I see him ever? Every time I am here, in this room, the music follows me, every time at this time of the day, when no-one is around to distract me from its call, its pull.
I can imagine the hand playing it very well. I can imagine the eyes, large, brown, with a lock of hair falling over it, focused on the strumming of his fingers, bent over the guitar, coaxing more out of it in his pain, his desire to create something that would take him away from this world, far far away from the well of pain and confusion he has called his life. Even though we have never met, I know all about him from his music. The first strum was enough to draw my attention, pull me as if on a leash trying to find my way towards him through this maze.
I have no idea about what would happen if I do find him. Maybe this is just my brain speaking to me in alluring whispers. All that would realistically happen would be me, standing near the door, with the wind in my hair, frozen in the surprise of actually having found the person I was looking for. Will uncertainty follow? Almost certainly.
For in the desperation of the goal, no one ever thinks of the aftermath of having the prize in front of their own eyes, maybe in their own hands.
The strums have become more forceful now, as if he has lost himself, eyes closed, face tilted towards the sun, forehead scrunched up while images of people he has lost float up like ghosts in his mind’s eye. And all the while, I am sitting here, scrunched up, wiping tears from my eyes. I must look horrible in my tattered green t shirt, hastily pulled on over my night shirt, blue checkered shorts showing too much cellulite than could be appropriate in our world. In my mind, I am hovering near the doorway, uncertain, lips slightly open trying to form the right words, but rejecting each one mid-way in a confusion of language. Nothing seems appropriate! Nothing seems to go with the music!
All I know is that he is my pied piper and I am one of the children that would follow him until the end of this world, barefoot, playing around night-time fires, gingerly stepping up to take the hand he would extend, all the while looking deep into his eyes, intoxicated and full of trust knowing fully well that trust is a stupid’s dream and a sane’s nightmare. I know fully well that trust gets you killed, but die we must all one day and I would rather die from trusting in this stranger’s music than alone in my own ways.
The strains have gotten softer now, as if he is coming down from the climax of his emotions, he has accepted his fate and is calming down, thinking of better days. Thunder and storms have been washed away leaving a pristine moonlit night, but night it is. He is a hater of the days. Love for him comes in secret, like quick reflections upon the face of a lake. And I am still sitting hunched over, my head resting on the window pane, my heart jumping at every little change in the rhythm, anticipating the end that must inevitably come, cutting short my one sided obsessive paradigm.
I imagine him pushing his hair out of his face with long fingers and walking out with his guitar in one hand. Maybe he will go read a book, maybe he has more important work to do. For now, there is silence, and the pull on my heart reduces and I let out a long shuddering breath of relief mixed with just a hint of longing.