I wish I could love, but I seem to have lost the passion, and forgotten the desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget.
-the picture of Dorian Gray
I can barely seeanything, the light is dim and filtered by the thick walls of the houses around me, it must be late in the afternoon judging by the sky above.
I don't know where I am, nor where I am going, the only guide I have is this melody, that grows more and more intense every minute.
It is heartbreaking, yet sweet, like a lament from an unknown land; mermaids maybe, since it seems to attract me so much. It enters my veins, my brain, my bones, making me feel new sensations at every note. I have no longer control over myself, the music is abducting, seductive, almost. My aimless wander has become a quest: I can't live without knowing the origin of this struggling and yet so beautiful sound. I've never heard anything like this before.
Long lost memories resurface, forcing me to listen to thoughts i kept silent for so long.
My father is lying dead in front of me, his cold hand in mine, while I refuse to let him go. His pulse is absent and everything is silent around us, he exhaled his last breath without even saying goodbye, ending his unconscious living. Now the years start to go backwards, he and mum are cooking dinner, well, mum is cooking dinner while he is stealing the ingredients and she pretends not to see anything. she is smiling and humming to an old song, her blue eyes cheerful and bright. now I'm opening the letter from NYU, learning I have been rejected; pieces of my expensive camera are shattered on the floor and i stare at them for hours. my future is gone and the camera is no longer of use. i try to fix it the next day, try to bring back to life what was my 16th birthday present. I remember taking one of the last pictures of dad for his and Carole's anniversary. and now it's gone, he's gone. I'm alone, nothing seems familiar anymore; all i can see in people's smile is pity, even the bullying has stopped for a few months and i can't tell if it's a good thing.
My eyes are wet with tears of grief and my chest is aching, everything is so surreal right now: the music, the atmosphere, this enclosing sadness around me, I am lost and I crave for more. I can hear no sound beside the music, no one is present, it is just me, wandering across an unknown city, while the cold air starts piercing my bare arms and face. The houses are built with no space between them, the fading light of the afternoon falls upon them remarking their grey shades and adding more desolation to the scene. Here and there an abandoned dog lays on the pavement and turns his begging look at me, probably searching for food, and old and dusty sheets hang from the balconies. How I'd like to take out my camera now and frame this, the purity of poverty here is almost touchable. I have never seen anything so real before.
My pace is faster and I am no longer tired, but the melody seems to stop. I am desperate, and I search for a sign, anything about the mysterious song. It suddenly starts again, for my relief.
And here he is: the author.
He's standing in a corner, his dark tee is leaving two inches of tanned skin visible, showing just the beginning of his defined hips; his jeans are loose and dirty, probably even broken somewhere. I can't see his face, just the dark, greasy curls covering the back of his head and the way he's holding the violin, his fingers tangling delicately on the wood, almost cradling it.
I am enchanted and delighted by the view, photographing this would be the highlight of my career, yet I'm scared it might ruin everything. I don't want to frighten him, I just wish to absorb everything I can before it's all finished. What will I do then?
I notice the case open on the ground, a few cents shining in the dark and I search frantically in my pockets. I can see him as I place the coins, his eyes are closed and his bushing eyebrows are frowning in what seems deep sorrow, his head is resting on the top of the violin. If he wasn't playing I'd say he was sleeping a very troubled and dreamless sleep. He has no public beside me but he doesn't seem to care. He's not playing for anybody. This is his music and I feel like I'm invading something private and sacred, something I shouldn't be witnessing.
He must have heard the coins falling on the velvet of the case, for his eyes open and settle upon me.
I am chickened out but sort of addicted to his look. His gaze is firm and his eyes...whoa...they are something indescribable, like his music; a mixture of amber and brown, of nightmare and dream, of heaven and hell. They are piercing and strong, he's observing me, head to toe. I'm not danger, I'd like to tell him, but the words stay unspoken in my mouth, and my lips move without any sound. Who is this man and why does he and his music affect me so much? what sort of spell has he cast and why? why have I, Kurt Hummel, been chosen to play the victim of it? Why does my life seem empty now and the only thing able of keeping me alive is this music?
I don't know what to do: do I walk away, do I wait for the ending, but when will it come? And will it? My questions are answered for he abruptly stops and disappears from view.
A vision. He was a vision.