The truth in our songs

Chapter 17

Blake-Achlys Huxley

I've been walking down the hallway to smoke when I saw light halcyon hair through the window of the music door. No one went there during lunch time since it was only for classes and band sessions but there sat a creature, on the edge of the creaking wooden stage, her angelic hair fell delicately down her fragile shoulders and I watched her legs dangeling harmoniously, swifting forth and back while her gauzy fingers held a heavy pen with which she uneasily scratched into the notebook on her lap. Her image was so gossamer and diphanous that it surprised me I could see her through the window of the door which was covered with fine dust particles. That creature looked like a guise, and illusion of a daydream I was drifting in. The pensive expression that was written all over her absorbed face let me realize that she was immersed and lost in unsettled thoughts. I was fluctuating between going for a distracting smoke or staying and contemplating the sight in front of me.

All of a sudden her eyes flickered up from the ink on her hands, a short irritated flush on the mess on her fingers, but then swiftly found their way to the piano in the corner. A  thunderous grumble jolted through the opened windows, still my eyes couldn't look away. It was like they were settled on her. I didn't know she could play, I didn't know anyone who could. Her notebook lay beside her as she stood up and followed the way her eyes had built towards the piece of untouched music. I saw how she reached her fingers out to touch the keys and quietly opened the door to slip in. Her attention still, glued to the piano, she didn't see me walk in and I remained inaudible. Her hand suddenly dropped to their side and I took the notebook in my hand before she got to turn around. I lingered my eyes on single words she had written down and examined them.

,, Are you a poet? ,, I asked her and she twirled around, a shocked expression on her face, the calmness was gone but so the saddned glimpse I thought to saw. She looked at me with those eyes I still hadn't figured out, I couldn't even tell what color they had because I never got so far. Everything about her was strange in a way I hadn't seen it before, the differences I could pick out were too big to stay unnoticed. Although she looked breakable and weak, the raise and tone in her words were everything I wouldn't have expected from someone like her.

,, I'm not. ,, she replied and looked down at me. I sat where she had taken a seat before, the wood underneath me was still warm from her. If she wasn't a poet why did she hide behind every corner then? I had never met a peot before and she surely didn't look like one but she still could be one. People were mostly what we didn't think they were.

,, Do you want to be a poet? ,, I then asked. Her words didn't sound like pure honey, not like a freshly bakened cake or the lively of a lemone. They were heavy, deep and bare, still not really comprehensive for everyones ears. Yet, she could undress everyone she desired to by just using one of them and let hem stand in front of their own nakedness. What was seen could be loved, but the way she seemed to remove every layer and cover, left you with uncertain gaps and cracks you didn't want to look at before. It was unwilling openness, whelve, she digged up with her fingertips to not let them be forgotten.

,, I don't ,, came another short answer and she tried to reach for her notebook but I was faster and softly shoved her hand away after I didn't let her reach it fast enough. Another brontide from the outside where all i could see was an inundation, a cloudburst. Her eyes flickered to the window but she had a blissful calmness in her eyes that told me she was a not bothered by it, rather relieved.

,, How can you write such things then? ,, I wanted to know because there was no way that the words she had just written down came by accident, she had sat there, her minddrowned eyes soaked into words and I saw how she poured them down, onto these thin layers of paper in my hand.