Thunder on a cold rainy night. Dreary tears falling on washed away dreams of what was and what could have been. The applause of a crowd, their nameless faces float through the forgotten memories amidst the labyrinth of life. Whispers, like curses in the twilight hours, “Play for me maestro!” One solitary voice heard above all others; her voice. As beautiful as a sunrise, as haunting as a lonely cry upon the hills, deep in the recesses of night. Yes. Play for her. One last sonata by the moonlight.
Fingers caress ebony keys; each note falling like a dagger to tear and sliver his soul. One strike begetting another while ink, like blood, flows onto parchment beheld at the end of a quill. It was the scratch to the insatiable itch of art. Inspiration was held within the candle flames he played by, wrote by and died by every time he touched his hands to an instrument.
What was it that made him bleed out this masterpiece now? Was it that he was crying over his failing sense that was being cored out of him like some horrible affliction? But was it not the affliction that was his only cure, the very essence of self redemption sought out within the seeds of his art? Was it to alleviate the pain of having to put forth such agony to an all too eager audience that filled the Opera Houses and Chamber Halls he performed in? And did they know his pain, these people who threw their gold and roses at his feet like tokens allotted at a loved ones funeral? Could they even begin to comprehend the anguish that smoldered in his eyes and burned deep within his brain?
It angered him that the aristocracy fed upon the life’s blood of the great virtuosos like refined cannibals, swallowing another’s pain without an inkling of it’s ...
... middle of paper ...
... fate with the last stroke of his quill as he penned between the lines of his composition sheets. No love of a woman did he mourn for. He grieved for his stolen sense that allowed him to revel in masterful beauty. He was deaf and now, he was truly conquered. The maestro laid his head upon the piano and wept in ear splitting silence, a silence that locked him up ruthlessly in constricting fetters he could never escape.
It was this that killed poor Beethoven in the end and she collected it like she collected so many other things; utterly and completely. To some virtuosos it was their sanity or their physical ability to maneuver the instruments they had been so blessed to wield; but to him, it was his last link to the world which left the applause of his fans and admirers to be smothered into nothing and his symphonies forever unfinished.
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- Vienna, Austria Thunder on a cold rainy night. Dreary tears falling on washed away dreams of what was and what could have been. The applause of a crowd, their nameless faces float through the forgotten memories amidst the labyrinth of life. Whispers, like curses in the twilight hours, “Play for me maestro!” One solitary voice heard above all others; her voice. As beautiful as a sunrise, as haunting as a lonely cry upon the hills, deep in the recesses of night. Yes. Play for her. One last sonata by the moonlight.... [tags: Creative Writing Essays]
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980 words (2.8 pages)
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1842 words (5.3 pages)