A Symphony Unveiled at Dusk
Who would have thought, after all these years of deliberately dodging the dance of melodies, that I would find myself bewitched by the very thing I evaded? It's a bit of a twist, isn't it? Decades upon decades, I walked through life with my ears closed to the siren songs of the world. It wasn't for a lack of love for artistry—oh no, my life has been a canvas of visual storytelling, captured in the blink of a shutter. But music, that pulsing beat of another's heart? It was an intrusion, a cacophony that muddled my thoughts, cluttered my mind with unnecessary noise.
Driving was a task of solitude, contemplation, no radio to interrupt my stream of ideas and daydreams. And while there were tunes I tapped my foot to, sure, they were more like fleeting acquaintances than intimate friends. But now? Ah, now! It's as if I've been possessed, bewitched by some sorcery that has thrown open the gates to a garden I've never wandered before.
What caused this seismic shift, I cannot pinpoint with certainty. Perhaps it's the work of an internal locksmith who's been toiling quietly for years, finding the right combination to unlock a part of my soul that I had bolted shut. With the tumblers finally aligned, the lock springs open, and what was once sealed away now floods in—a tidal wave of symphonies and sonnets made of sound.
I sit now with headphones clasped about my ears like a seafarer's hands cupping the ocean to hear its whispers. Each song is a universe, each note a star, and I, I am suddenly an astronomer of audio, charting the constellations of chords. The guitar, the piano, the breathy whisper of the flute—I hear them all, individual entities in a grander collective, and I marvel at how they converse, how they dance and weave a tapestry of—ah, but there's that word I promised to use sparingly. Let's say, instead, they weave a quilt of harmonies, each stitch a beat, each pattern a verse.
I'm not just listening; I am comprehending, appreciating the genius of the composition, the soul poured into every measure. This newfound ecstasy has me reeling with desires I never entertained. A career in music, can you imagine? To create rather than merely consume, to be part of the magic that once eluded me. It's a thrilling thought, albeit bittersweet.
For the shadows are indeed lengthening, a gentle reminder that the day is waning. Time, that ever-fleeting spectre, doesn't pause and neither does it promise. So here I am, at this latter stage of life, with a fire kindled late yet burning fiercely. Why now, when the hourglass has fewer grains to count? I suppose there are parts of us, chambers within our hearts, that awaken only when the time is ripe, or perhaps, when we are finally ready to listen.
Is it too late, then? Is the curtain falling on this act before I've even stepped on stage? I refuse to accept that. The symphony of life may be nearing its crescendo, but there is music yet to be discovered, to be created, to be lived. In the grand score of existence, perhaps my melody is a latecomer, but it arrives with a passion undiminished by its tardiness.
And so, with the baton raised, I am ready to conduct my own opus, however long it may be. For in the realm of music, as in all things, it's never too late to join the chorus. And what a chorus it shall be—rich with the wisdom of years and vibrant with the zest of newfound love.
Who knows what witchery this is? But whatever spell has been cast, I welcome it, for it has shown me that even as the dusk approaches, one can still discover a dawn within.