A major. As the resonance fades away the silence becoming is pregnant with eternity and everything it is set not to be; a world of missed connections and near hits, what could have beens and what will not be forgottens. Somewhere one had earnestly spoke, words fluttering from his mind with as much of their own volition as he had ever permitted; boulders of consciousness thrown into the very space between them – raw, unfiltered, only chiselled into form by the hands of intermitting silence. Stuttering, cutting, stammering, honing, blathering, sanding - the ideal form in the mind’s eye struggling to be manifest, to bring a moment of perfect clarity to bear; destined ever to fail. He speaks of regrets, willingness to compromise, changing, but he is no fool, knows his life’s too short to be two different people ... to be one coherent person. Yet his willingness is truth, to chip away an inflated ego, curb unyielding convictions, compromise, do what he must ... for her? them? him? Another faces a monster he so lovingly created; every strand of its consciousness laboured over, tomes distilled for its tapestry’s threads - first lovingly then obsessively, a blind wheel set in motion, and madness descends not as thunder but as nightfall. Wonders if his vision was ever clear, if he has truly stopped caring; as an act it was permissible, a front to wall off the winds of existential discontent, a layered lie to hint at choice, illude mastery. But to breach the lie and become the illusion, what then? And a moralist moralising, a standing livewire of the psyche’s dirty and depraved little secrets constructing a self and actioning a moral code – for only then is it made pertinent, questioning the value of an instinctive morality whose enforcing takes not an act of active will, a well narrated fiction. There too are the vacuous and the ignoble, the fierce and the fearful, all as real; and as the resonance fades away they are made anew in the moment’s image, their own creator: a god of hope, despair, or final chances. The world teetering on the edge of a note, a last breath exhaled and a first inhaled, both laced with tears ... parcelled ... a neat little bow, deep purple, matching the dress of the bride’s maid and the violets around the church; vows serenaded from miles and miles away by the next note too. C sharp minor.
