2004-08-27
Delirious, yet thinking of my pianist...
I am surrounded by dry, bare streets filled with lampposts, climbing up to touch the blue sky. There is dust in my eyes, and I rub it all off to see these things through hazy fog. And walking nonchalantly, the wind sways the golden clock behind my back with its penetrating sounds of tick-tock, tick-tock, and nervousness consumes me.
My hopes were dumped into the dirty river, and I gripped the cool railing as I watched their peach-colored meanings float away. Looking to my left and my right, I see that the passer-bys are moving slowly; there are so many things that stay static.
But what to do? What to do to calm my soul and ease my own ever-present feeling of uselessness? I begin to think, let�s go then, to some underground bar where the opium dances heavily in the air. Like Dorian Gray, I�ll ignore my troubles, and the reminders of my own corrupted soul for the night. Cackles are heard in the distance, and the sun�s piercing rays intensify....
The sweat slightly dampens my face as I awake from this odd dream, which has quite disturbed me--mainly, because I don�t understand it. Perhaps I�m only suffering from the effects of this bad flu, and the slight grogginess from the medicine that I took. Moonlight Sonata plays in the background, as my start up song on my computer. I�m lying in this heaviness of gray, with disheveled dark hair and languid limbs--I finally get to feel like Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment.
The premonition that I would get quite ill sometime this month had been intensifying over the past several days; I am quite glad that it happened now: easier classes, and substantially less workload--hardly any make-up work. However, I very much despise being absent because I like to get my work done on time. I�m perhaps one of those who takes their work home with them, and I could say that my life will always be dominated by my work.
For the past two days, I have been lying in my bed for the most part, and staring up at my ceiling. From the moment that I wake up, my sole mission for the day is: how on earth to get more energy to this enfeebled body of mine. Certainly, this may sound quite silly, but I really feel as if I am getting old. I remember when I was fifteen, and able to stay up all night reading, and now, I couldn�t even stay up until 11:30 p.m. without my head throbbing the day after. Chopin�s birthday is only 22 days before mine (March 1), thus, in honor of this, Brienne and I are already making plans to attend the spring concert held in his honor every year--I am absolutely tickled.
Currently, I am watching a special on wines on television, and have been reading Dailycandy e-mails that are every weekday sent to my inbox folder. I believe it was Justin who got me addicted to this, and I thank him profusely--he�s my shopping buddy. Speaking of boys (sort of), I was walking to class with John (the burned-out physics genius) the other day, and I�m telling him how I�m just barely holding on, seeing as how an overwhelming sense of apathy and fatigue have gotten the best of me. Anyway, I end up saying that all I want to do at the moment is sit under the shade of some tree and write poetry, even if its horrendous. Then he tells me that he likes to read poetry, so we should get together. Yet, John is a very odd guy, and so, he takes out this paperback physics book (I think the title pertains to time-dilation) and tears out a page, handing it to me.
�Why on earth did you just tear out that page?� I ask, obviously surprised, because I don�t make it my custom to rip out the pages of books.
�It�s important and life-altering. I now endow you with the secrets of the universe,� He responds, or at least I think that�s what he said.
I pocket the page and shrug. Then he asks me if I have AP Calculus next semester, and I tell him that I do, and it�s with Mrs. Leonard.
I have odd daydreams of myself, treading through soggy snow and gripping onto my thick, winter coat. One afternoon, after stepping into one of the music rooms at Eastman, I�ll hear Chopin being played. With lifeless clouds painted outside the large, glass windows, these piano melodies will dance in the air like dragonflies. He�s supposed to have dark hair, with tender, dark eyes and hands dancing over the ivory keys. Slowly stepping into the room, with wooden floors moaning underneath the soles of my shoes, I�ll follow the blissful melody. Smiling tenderly, I�ll most likely study the young pianist who has instantly captured my heart.
It�s beautiful I�ll find myself saying
Shyly, he will smile as he gently closes the sheet music. These shy smiles will turn into soft laughter, which swirl in the breezes of the cold nights. Winters will dab our faces with its frosty breath, as our own crimsoned lips touch, under the grayness of the morning--our trembling hands touching. So autumn evenings will no longer be so silent, and lonely, as I will smile and laugh and stroll with the one who understands Chopin as much as I do. I will find myself listening to the Raindrop Prelude and asking,
You know what that sounds like?
Dreams of one spinning, and laughing under a sea of white, sobbing clouds
Precisely
In short, life will be like this one day: with wild, beating hearts; and innocent whispers fading into the morning. Life will be filled with soft, shy kisses and trembling lips and hands. I can hear the faint echoes of laughter and glittering eyes; and I can feel this other hand clenching mine as I stroll under the perfumed rain.
Can you see these two kissing ghosts under the ocean of white sheets, with intertwined limbs, and bodies moving to the sound of the night breeze? With hands running through disheveled hair, and whispered phrases underneath muted smiles--each movement will create the words, which will be written in gold dust on the brown pages of a storybook.
Until one night, I awake, and realize that I am alone.
It�s quite a shame that I can only find happiness in my daydreams.