Chopin's Nocturnes

2004/2005... Spring Awakening / Nocturne No.17 in B, Op.62 No.1, Chopin


We're moving; you and I. We move like all the circles and wind patterns and dying songs left to be sung; like ashes and disinegrating skin, like the dust of the dead we can do without.

You are the shadow of someone I knew once; you are the shell, the shimmer, the fading hope increasingly diminished.

I still follow the footsteps of a ghost in a ghost world; the cobwebs of my thoughts.

He is dead; you know, he left this world, he surrendered too young, he gave up the fight and I am left here to mourn for the unspoken, the unamed, the one who could not be seduced. The one whose number was up before the bloom.

And lately he has sunken in his roots, he has sunken in my brain. I feel him on my skin; I feel the hint of him, the mystery of his absence.




I need unfolding; I need undulating and spilling out and the glimmer of warm spring air. I like movement in music, I like the dance of unknown strangers, I like the communion of those I care not to remember afterwards.



I want to play in this role. I see life as a game. I see this as one giant evolving ceaseless orchestration. A building up, a crescendo, a finale, the curtain lowers and rises back up again, the players take their places, the music begins, the music ends, it begins again and a hundred thousand bravos in between.

I want endless audiences and endless operas for the god, the devil and Man.

Isn't it nice to sit and be silent sometimes? To cry with a smile on your face and know nothing can touch your secret thoughts?

I like the secrets we have between us; I like that I'll never be caught.

I like watching others runs in the rain while I walk in it.

I like being under the stars, distant from the sky and soaked to the bone without fear of being wet.

I like what love means to you.




I dance, I sing, I stretch, I fall, I linger, I am swept away, swept up in the feeling of the mood of the afternoon.

I am wrapped in the cold stars, I swim in the impermeable clouds, I tiptoe across the moon, I run down mountains and slide down tree tops.

Love is infinitely more important because of death.
Love is the sacred to death's profane; even in it's universality it remains an inner mystery to all of us.