The Cellist

He’s alone on stage and that is when he’s free.  He’s filled with dread and exhilaration simultaneously.  He looks over on a sea of faces and is aware of their world.  Their needs and ambitions are familiar to him.  He speaks to his listeners without saying a word.  He fills the emptiness of their silence.  A calm comes over him as he begins and his audience senses it. Certainty is his spark.

When nothing else crosses his mind his neck sways in time with the vibrations.  Sound waves reverberating across the concert hall, his thoughts leave him to drift for a time.  In that moment he’s formless and unbounded by thought.  The audience takes note of this without fully understanding.

His future is uncertain and his past remains broken.  His hands know what comes next but he does not.  His left hand dances across the neck of his instrument.  Each note is a star shining in the night sky.

His mind ventures through each vibration, following their waves.  It’s come to him naturally and always has because authenticity is his endeavour.  He never distinguished passion from work but at no point does he lose himself to emotion.  He takes responsibility for his workspace.  He was a cellist before he could play.

His listeners are still, their eyes widen as he flows effortlessly through intricate scale progressions.  Many performances will come but for the moment that essence gives meaning to those around him.  A hint of sunrise over the horizon.  The dark melodies had evoked in them a longing for a time that does not yet exist.

Edward Hackett

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