white song

What does a man think by sitting at the terrace borrowing an old guitar and playing some old songs which are originally composed for piano? People inside would come to simple conclusion which said that the man was insane. How many years has the time passed for since the dawn of his first thrumming strings. Who would have thought that he wouldn’t get so much from the beginning?

Yet understanding his weakness of playing guitar didn’t let him crying and day-dreaming. He played the damned instrument as he ever pleased. At times he played it softly, gently, and I have to admit, he could play one or two pretty good compositions. However, that doesn’t mean he is terrific. He was just middle aged man hiding inside his thick winter coat with his hood on or so we thought that way.

What was inside his mind? He appeared from nowhere answering the call from his old colleagues. While the others arrived with several buses straight from nearby airport, he happened to walk. Just walked out of the air, right after the buses gone, between the brewing snowstorm. No one knew how he came and he just smirked if anyone ever asked. He entered the chamber with his headgear on and everyone looked at him since his attire was just not common.

How do I put this description? People were wearing black and white, holding a cup of something, and having chit-chat with the surrounding while he was, well, wearing dark turtle neck sweater combined with a long blazer behind his over-sized worn out winter cloak. It was just like if he had been somewhere else before that time but I could say no more about that; his attire behind the cloak was just fresh as if he had washed it yesterday. Still about his wearing, I reckoned an cross-like shaped insignia. If I wasn’t mistaken, it was a sword with something. The emblem was shiny white and I was guessing if it was white steel, silver, or platinum and placed on his left collar. He didn’t make conversation so much. I mean, he was silent and only talked if he had to greet someone he knew, exchanging a few words and then going by was more like it.

After he finished with the dinner and regaling the old memories with his friends, he went to a certain person asking for something. Then, he came with, what is that you guess? Right, a guitar. An old one. Then he moved towards the corner terrace and sat on the farthest balcony. When I approached him, he had been playing that old piece for some time. I asked if he wanted some drink or snack and he waved at me. This man was just like that. Nothing changed ever since we met for the first time up on the sky. Somehow I know that when people descend onto Earth, he stays up there, out of our reach.

Then, he kept on playing one song after another and the next thing I knew, he was gone. No one remembered that he had been there, inside the very same chamber as me and other people were. His name wasn’t on the register although I was sure he signed his name when he entered the building. The only thing left of him was just an empty glass with fading lemon scent.

I recognized the song, one song he played that night, but I can’t remember the composer or the title, even now. A song which is now I like to play occasionally. A song to remember what the good time is and was. A remembrance of just an ordeal. A reminder of how white the snowstorm was and how true his play was after dusk. For a long forgotten player, who aged not and died not.


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