I was the only one sitting in the balcony, I assume because I was the only one who knew how to reach it. I preferred it this way. When the music was good, I would stare with glazed-over eyes. Nobody understood why, except for the music majors. When the music was bad, or simply not to my liking, I wrote. Always I was with a pencil in my hair, a notebook in my hand.
When there was no music, the paper would come to my knees, the pencil to my hand. Sometimes I would write of love, sometimes of hate and bitter sorrow, but I what I wrote always stemmed from the symphony within me. I suppose that's I was was here now, fifteen minutes early to the university's orchestra concert. The best music (tone-passion) could be found here in the topmost row of the balcony.
I was particularly interested in tonight's concert because, for the first time, one of the opera majors would be joining in for two songs. I'm not sure why the idea of listening to opera was to appealing to me; perhaps because it was something rare in my life, a style I had never experienced in person before. My roommate told me opera was stupid and not worth the time spent listening. She told me it was a dying art. "No," I had replied, "you try filling and entire auditorium with your voice an no microphone, and then tell me again power like that is dying."
She had only laughed at me. I suppose I will always be her crazy writer, but here I was, watching the singer walk and take her place in front of the orchestra (was that assurance – no fear – in her face?).
I was here, alone in the balcony, captivated as the conductor, dressed all in black and white, raised his batton and whispered some last minute wisdom to te instrumentalists infront of him. He peered at the singer. She nodded, he breathed, the orchestra breathed, they all rose as one. The music began.
It was soft at first, the violins and violas alone setting the scene. I saw a flock of tiny, white birds (were they doves?) inject themselves into the sky as the flute, clarinet, and oboe joined in. The story continued to unfold, and I fell into the world created just for me. The notes, the triplets, the tone, the magnificent crescendos – all of them moved me in ways I will never be able to explain to my roommate. She does not feel as I feel, and no amount of stuttered and useless than acceptable explanations will open her soul to the magic I experience in music.
But then…then…I was wrenched away from the fluttering of my heart's normal response, and my senses were engulfed in a new –different– type of magic. The singer had joined the orchestra, voice self-assured and my body followed the doves of earlier into the sky, carried on warm columns of the opera singer's power.
I was lifted – kidnapped almost – taken far away from the world of lonely balconies and pencils in the hair. I was placed in a world I could not describe, but only feel. I did nor think, I only felt, and that was perfection. No more worries, no more fear, no more exhaustion. There was only passionate, pure existence…
a/n: This did not turn out like the brilliant piece of art I had hoped it would be, but it's just about as good as it's going to get. I hope you enjoyed it. Your views are much appreciated. Thank you!