THE FLUTE THAT CHANGED HIS WORLD
He tries so hard to know himself, to see the world through eyes that can understand his viewing. However the harder he tries, the more desperation sneaks in and settles into his life, this existence of torment.
How does one say how he feels? How he sees things, how one tells another about the pain, the hurt he feels?
He takes up his flute, how he wishes above all things to express himself to his fellows. In a state of numbness he puts the flute to his lips and blows a mere sigh, oh so slowly exhaled. The flutes sweet note sends shivers down his spine. He comes awake and blows again and again and oh how sweet this feel’s this sound; this is how I should feel.
The sound reaches all the corners of his mind, bringing light where there was only darkness and uncertainty. A passer by would have stopped on hearing the sweet sound, held their breaths, waiting for the note to end its challenge. However before the sound is lost the next attacks the hearing, and sends one’s thoughts and feelings racing with the note one is caught up in. But all too soon the hearer becomes as one with the sound, unable to pull loose, rushing forward, ever hasting to catch the next feeling that the sounds are bringing forth within one.
Oh how these emotions have laid dormant and unexpressed for so long. His fingers move faster, holding themselves down, lifting again and again. The sounds changing, deep one minuet, high and racing the next, slow and deep is the next that follows.
Each note seems to bring to life light where there was only darkness, and unexpressed feelings now showing its true self, and then is lost as the fingers lift. The note changes and so another door opens. Time is lost, ceasing to be.
He plays to bring life to himself, to open the locked doors within, to let out these thoughts and ideas never expressed to his fellow man and unseen before by the player.
He feels at one with himself. More time elapses and is lost forever as a moment of now. The reality of now is lost to the sounds he creates. Angry screeching cries are the sounds he makes, that splatter and dive and driven in all directions and never really landing or coming to rest in any specific place.
Sadness so deep and lost… the notes never seem to end they march on and on, yet others are built on top of those and yet again never ending till all other feelings and sounds are gone and a heaviness comes over himself.
He realizes he is not playing, and yet, he knows he’s been where he’s never trodden before, and yet once more, knows not that he knew.
His life as a boy goes on. He dreams his passion, his desires above all others is to play the sounds of himself, so that once again he can live the emotions only others dream to feel.
Taking up the flute again he is lost in the haze of unknown sounds yet to be explored, and yet tried somehow by fingers unaccustomed to the thoughts that demand that they do things that they are unable to do, but yet he does them.
He smiles, he is riding on his cloud, his creation, his driving passion to know and feel what he is. Time and again his passion is spent, only to return with greater drive, and more victories and battle are won. I watch my flute player, through eyes old with time, yet endless to time and space.
The voids out there have yet to be filled with his sounds and so I listen endlessly for the sound of the flute boy, only to hear the quietness, and yet, is that his sound? Is he playing the sound of silence, the emotion of death, for he knows them all, from the emotion of “Hiding…to the emotion of “Freedom of self.” He talks with the words of sound, pitch, and the mellowness of vibrating winds. I have talked to the blower of reeds and find him shining and true , a man not a boy, a maestro of sound and creator of emotions.
He yearns to know, to see himself, for he moves from try, to do or do not, never wavering from his passion, his sounds. I say to you flute man, play your tunes and let us know your feelings for us, fill us with your sounds