Disclaimer: None of it is mine.
Inspiration strikes from the oddest sources. The idea for this short little ficlet popped into my head as I was trying to remember from which song "the day the music died" was actually from (it's pathetic, I know...I should have known that one..).
Being the band geek that I am, I cannot help but to equate a lot of things to music. Read, enjoy, and please review!
He was the composer, the maestro, performing his piece before the entire world. He was the orchestra, gliding the bow across the strings, producing saccharine and callous sounds; he was the brass, alternating between harsh phrases and harmonious melodies.
He was the music.
He sang a tune of change, of hope. It was a song of revolution. It was a song of war, and pain--a song of hope and liberty. This melody rang across London, filling every crevice with the rich tone of the song he played. It swelled with thoughts of anarchy and then was thrown into a ritard by Sutler and his ilk. He coaxed it into its final climactic crescendo, puntuating the last, tumultuous chords with his beliefs, his plans for a better world.
The music is gone now.
The Shadow Gallery—once illuminated by his vibrant presence—produces only echoes of the past. The streets of London are silent. The world is empty without the music, without V.
He was the lullaby that could lull me to sleep at night, the classical composition that I used for support. He was always there for me, guiding me, helping me. Now it has all changed. There is no more Mozart, no more Tchaikovsky. There is no more V.
He is gone.
There is silence all around. The people of London go about their lives; they don't notice the giant void, the emptiness that emphasizes the fact that he is not here. They do not notice the gaping chasm, devoid of sound, that surrounds the city. I am the only one who can "hear" it. I am the only one who notices the never-ending series of rests.
I keep expecting there to be a coda, some added on part at the end of his composition. I keep hoping that he will come back, and that the music will come back.
That piece is done now, I realize. V's work, and V himself, will always be in a class of its own, above the symphonies and concertos of the great. His song was of change, was a vendetta against all that had been done against him, and against the world.
It ended when he died.
There is no changing the fact that V is dead, as much as I wish that there could be. He will never come back. He died, and took the music with him, leaving an empty, soundless world.
The music of V is gone forever. It is up to each and every one of us to make our own music. We can create songs and harmonies that he could not--happiness, joy, freedom. V's opuses were merely the prelude, leading up to the main act: today, and tomorrow, and every day of this new, hopeful future for which he fought.
The music died with V that day.
It is our job to bring it back to life.
Reviews are lovely!