A Pianist In The Afternoon (II)

There he sat by the old fountain just around an old cafe; and from his bag he took out some neatly folded pieces of paper and an overused pencil. And, seemingly waiting for the cold signal wind, he started by scanning the "surface" of the scene. Okay, this is what I have to do, Sketch the scene... Picture it in your mind and simply sketch... He paused as he suddenly remembered something from what he thought. I can't always be remembering things of the past...

As he sank into his own mind, he began to sketch; and sketch he did unstoppingly, as if his brain couldn’t stop calculating the cycle of the things around him. Hurry up! His brain was pushing him. The time of killing is nearing… For tomorrow, when they will sound the signal, it will be time for me to make my move. Suddenly, he was having trouble on what he’d decided. This isn’t a good time to have second thoughts.

They said that he was one of the best in town. Well, at least for the people from the underground world. He couldn’t be one of the best in town if he needed to sketch the scene of the “murder field” every time he’s on a mission. He takes too much time. Time is almost never tolerated in the underground world. But luckily for him, they’d have the patience. It’s because I never missed a mark. He was now trying to find himself in approval. Maybe because he was losing time; Why was it that this scene was so hard to sketch?

Talking to himself as he was nearing the finale of his sketch, he heard suddenly a faint melody just from behind. As he tried to finish what he was doing, he heard again that faint noise. Now it was becoming louder a bit. It was melodies from a piano. Someone’s playing the piano. Now I can’t concentrate and finish this scene. Why does it have to be now? He then turned around to look at the piano player.

He sat there paused, and staring for a while as soon as he saw who was playing the piano. What kind of a joke is this? There was no mistaking it as his memory confirmed that his next mark was the person seated by the piano and playing its keys. This is turning out to be a nightmare.

A Pianist In The Afternoon

He walks the streets of Milan; his hands in his pockets while unconciously biting the tip of a lighted cigarette. His nose has already grown accustomed to the smell of it; so much that it almost smells like the aroma of a freshly made ham and bacon sandwich on a breakfast table. Breakfast was no longer an everyday thing for him; it has grown cold in his thoughts. Darn it. That simple thought of it made his stomach growl and his tongue swirl in saliva inside his mouth.

It was already nine minutes past noon that day as he walked by the garden and past the loner's alley. Now walking by the streets where cars are forbidden, he scans the sidewalk cafes with his watery eyes (Watery because he hadn't been able to sleep very well for the past few nights). There they are again... There they were again; the "old people" by the sidewalk cafes; seemingly reading newspapers and chewing on some dry panini. And of course, coffee is a must. Nothing was of interest in these subjects to the walking man. What struck him most maybe was the disinterest in the faces of these "old people". Such hypocrites, he thought. Must they always pretend to be reading these morning papers when all that they can find is the hate of this world?

Just a thought anyway... He thought. Walking further and finding now a suitable place, he started by brushing off some dried leaves, then by sitting down on it after. It was on the marble borders of an old fountain situated just a bit away from one of the street cafes. Ah... this, here again... He said to himself. He was to be there, all, and every afternoon; maybe just thinking, or just watching the sun blink behind the tree leaves as they danced with the wind.

Or I should probably not talk to myself this much. It freaks other people out. Heck, it freaks me out. His boring thoughts again. Thinking of doing something other than staring at the faint sun and talking to his own thoughts, he took some things out from his old rugged sling bag.


Workin' on the next parts... Hope you'll like it, it's something lighter than the usual posts here... Thinkin' of putting some weird twists too... :]

An Almost Self-Destruction

And she said, "What was there to wait for, or to ponder upon?" And it all didn't seem to make sense. But. It never did. The confusion now that has taken over her conversations, and words; they all seemed to have gotten so cold. And none now, are the memories that were left for her to hold; she must throw these away in order to let these seeds grow.

And like the many sacrifices that hypocritical heroes make, she too, must let these old seeds die in order to let new seeds grow. A choice was made, but neither was it the right one nor the wrong one. And how could the skies tell, or the evening night whisper her stories, in this time of chaos, then wreckage?

And that was why she'd aleady fallen deeper, into that darkened place. It will be after this period, that she will rise above her own thoughts; because they've gotten the best of her. After the sadness and the bitterness, new seeds will grow; as already mentioned.

She will stand there in the bloody rain; to let it wash and nurture these seeds and let them sprout into destructive, vengeful thoughts.

In Her Thoughts: Untitled

When thoughts are empty, they are filled with dread.


Actually, it's just another way of saying that Em is on hiatus. :D

The Decay Of Something Beautiful

And there is Em, once again seated in front of the bright screen and staring blankly into it. And she is silently contemplating about death; not of herself, but of something beautiful inside her. And she is peeking once again inside her empty dome; that which was once filled with dust, and/or filthy thoughts. She reaches in to feel if there's anything left from her previous recollections of remorse and hatred.

Ah yes, hatred, you say. Such a beautiful word. Beautiful in essence that it can slowly and discreetly crawl into your mind, then devour your heart. And it's such a perfect scene that's carved into her peaceful memories. And she worked so hard for such a thing, and was left there, waiting, forever in eternal ruins.

How can this happen? She asks, knowing that the only answer/s would be the silence of the wind that never ceases to pass her by. Perhaps tired of being tired, something other than hatred has subtly grown its seeds in the small creases of her soul. And this is to be observed, and thought about.

And this is just the beginning. And these choices that were left for her in the dark; perhaps to make the wrong one or the right one; would only be a matter of time.

Fortunately/Unfortunately for her, Time doesn't exist.