The Violinist This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

He was a vagrant and a wanderer, aimless and alone, detached and dispassionate. He walked down the old, forgotten road with everything but emotion on his face. His golden hair glimmered underneath the resplendent sun. He wore tattered clothes; an old brown robe, with old beige pants that fitted loosely on his burnt sienna tan. Everything about him was distinguished and misplaced yet he could not be more harmonious with the very essence of nature, simple and unique. His accomplice on this unfrequented road of life was a sturdy case. A sort of rigid box the materials of which, by the looks of the covering, were something of utmost importance.


The man continued to traverse the undusted, unswept and untouched path, until he acknowledged the presence of other civilized life, traveling the road as well. The people who approached the lonely soul, were the odd couplings of an old sagacious-looking man, a beautiful young woman and a child with a twinkle of childish innocence in his eyes. On cue, as if the man had been through this routine an uncountable number of times before, he came to a halt and lifted the rugged case to retrieve the contents within. The man, who had still not revealed the slightest bit of human emotion, undid two sturdy metal latches and opened the enclosure. He carefully put the black container down and what he lifted out of the cover could have not been more unlike its setting. It was an instrument for the soul, it was handcrafted, it was just as one with nature as the man himself, it was perhaps the most beautiful thing about this man, it was a violin.


He grasped it firmly with his left hand as he reached in once again into the black casing to retrieve the last item that this treasure chest held. What he pulled out what the Excalibur was for Arthur, what the brush was for Picasso, what the pen was for Shakespeare and what the piano was for Mozart, he pulled out a bow. A perfect accomplice to partake in the wonders that were achievable by the musical duo. He clutched the violin with the delicacy of an experienced maestro and rested his chin on the instrument. Still apathetic and unemotional, he tightened his grip on the bow and assumed an aesthetically graceful position to play. Nature stood still and created a deafening silence, the only organic beings that moved now was the group that approached the man. He closed his eyes and began to demonstrate his ability with the marvelous instrument. It is a bit more than impossibly futile to describe what exactly occurred at this moment in time with mere words. It was as if time itself had stopped, simply to revere and admire this man. It would be felonious to say that the man played beautifully, because even Gods do not dare undermine such an artistic Adonis of the musical realm. The only existence that seemed to not be affected by the musical act of this man, was the secular group of individuals who were now closer than ever to the man. The first one to cross paths with the symphonic soul, was the elderly and wise looking gentleman. As he approached the harmoniously celestial man he barely slowed down and then continued past the aforementioned wonder.


"They sure don' make 'em like they used too, huh sonny? Keep practicing, one day you might be like one of the greats."

A blasphemous commentary that even made the deities quiver with fear and anger. How was it possible that any learned being could criticize the very personification of lyrical perfection? But the subject of this very disputation, seemed unaffected. In fact it was almost as if he expected some sort of slanderously critical remark about his unfathomable talent, but the man continued to play. The woman was the next to follow suit as she passed the man without paying the slightest bit of attention to the celestial talent that stood right before her eyes. This last encounter, or lack thereof, had possibly the most physically visible effect on the musically attuned hermit. A twitch, perhaps of sorrow or woe, or of the trials and tribulations that every man, no matter how gifted, must face. But this phase of mourning did not last long, as he recomposed and recollected himself and continued to astound all that had artistic literacy around him. The only one in the group of laic individuals that had yet to tread past the indescribably unique individual was the boy. A mere child of no more than seven or eight, that had a certain purity in his eyes, eyes that had yet to see the world for the dark and irreparably flawed place that it truly was. He approached the man with a certain amazement and admiration that had not been bestowed upon the more than deserving individual. He looked in the eyes of the cold and blank face of the man with warmth and emotion. He finally conquered his fear and asked the unexpected:


"Gee Mister, ya' think you can teach me how to do that?"

For the first time in the man's entire journey the first sign of emotion and humanistic compassion was shown. A smile found its way to the man's statuesque face, as he concluded, perhaps, the most articulate musical composition since the dawn of time. He placed the violin and its companion back into its rigid and sturdy confinement. He bent his rustic knees to address the little one in front of him, and for the first time, spoke in more than just notes.


"You have seen and understood less of the world than the old man and broken less hearts and hopes than the woman, yet in you I see more potential, more capacity, ability and more capability than either; in you, I see the remaining hopes that I foster for humanity. While I cannot be sure whether or not you can possess the skill of the violin one day, what I am certain about is that you are the only one who is developed enough to accomplish that goal. You do not possess the ignorant stagnancy of the old man, nor the materialistic desire of the woman. Within you I see an almost saint-like persona who will be a maestro at whatever it is your heart desires."

He grabbed the sturdy confinement of his better half and started to tread on the retired path once again. He looked back once at the boy, with the same emotionless expression as before:


"Goodbye dear boy, maybe one day we will meet again and you can astound me with your enthralling skill. Live Long, Live Well and Prosper."

With this final adieu the man left, no more a part of reality as the sounds he played, no more a part of life as he was of death and no more a part of the human world than that of the God’s.





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zishanarooj said...
Mar. 19, 2010 at 6:22 pm
Thank-You very much for the feedback, much appreciated. Its nice to hear back from the community! :)
 
SilverSnowflakes said...
Mar. 11, 2010 at 6:19 pm
this reminds me of when Joshua Bell went busking shortly after I went busking with two of my friends and each of us got about $40, meaning my group got three times as much as Joshua Bell, who is a famous violinist. beautifully written :)
 
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