(no subject)
Steam filed politely out of the subway vents into an air already too thick for its own good. The street reeked of modern urban cleansing. Beneath the aluminum sheen of new Starbucks and McDonalds signs you could see the age lines of a street that has seen one too many late night crime scene investigations and one too many mornings of curbside defeat. The somber sound of a jazz trio filtered through the air in a noninvasive manner, as if merely illuminating already existing notes that always existed in the hearts and minds of the streets occupants. Several strides outside the Metro stop, the music rises in volume. A woman's voice sings words that are undistinguishable at such a distance, but her message is clear:
"Love is lost, love is dead. I thought I once knew love, but I was scorned too many times and all I know now is loneliness and disgust."
It was easy to locate the scene of the crime, there is something about a woman bleeding her heart into a microphone that lures in kindred souls, like moths to a flame. The open field at the end of the road was littered with countless of these souls. Some there for the image, some for the culture, but some still yet because they were fellow insects like me, crawling desperately in search of meaning, in search of someone who could understand.
The crescendo and decrescendo of the emotion and music fell flatly on the first two types. They are there to take it in at face value, a glimpse into a fading scene of days past. Culture of a time in America when things were tough and the people were tougher. Alas, things are still tough as are we, at least those of us with the true grit to see beyond the facade of a nation refusing to glance into itself, into its own eyes. It is in the eyes where you can truly see a person's soul. It is in the eyes that you also can distinguish who is truly broken, and it is the truly broken that make up the final third of the audience.
The music to these people, is life. It is the only glimmer of hope in a world that has long turned its back on the common person. The governments of the world spend billions upon billions of dollars to overthrow despots, fight disease, and wage wars on drugs, but how much is spent seeking a way to mend a broken heart? Philosophers and intellectuals will spend their lives in tanks of thought writing and revising the secrets of the world, but how much time do they spend thinking of a way to fill the bottomless pit from a heart torn asunder? How many doctors have found a cure to loneliness? These men and women, supposedly the greats of our age, never address or spend time understanding the antithesis to the love our Hollywood movies tell us about.
As a lonely rambling piano solo concludes, you can hear the true listeners let out a sigh. It is, however, not a sigh of defeat nor one of relief. Instead it is the exhaling of a long held paranoia. A fear from deep within that, despite the words of countless pop singers, we are all alone. This fear is unlocked by the key and assuaged away by the signature of the time. They realize, even if only until the music stops, that someone out there understands. Someone else has had all that they held dear, all that mattered to them, thrown to the gutter as a result of the imperfection in human nature. Does love exist? Does it matter? The eyes of the broken care not, for at that moment in time, you can see relief wash over them. You can feel a gentle lifting of the down-trodden. The music enraptures them in its hold, and for that song they can feel no longer be alone.
A flick of a lighter, the burning of a cigarette and we are once again on the street, once again a part of the cruel reality of the times. A dirt covered man in rags shares some lingering awkward eye contact with his polar opposite at the bar inside of the Starbucks. Social norms and conventions tell you that these two men could not possibly be more detached from each other, but if you were there to witness the scene as I had you would know this is false. It could not have been longer then several seconds they maintained this contact, however in that time they both knew all they needed to know about each other. Though worlds apart these two men saw a common bond in one another. Each man was broken and defeated. It was as if in this act they told each other, "I understand. You are not alone. I suffer too."
The man in the rags continues past, pushing his shopping cart down the street for what might as well been his millionth time, a feat that gets no easier with age. While both men had to struggle through love and loss, this one must also deal with the constant judging eye of an uncaring public. He had to find sustenance in a trash can and shelter in a box. The raggedly clothed man had to fight for survival while fighting off the emptiness inside. The man at the bar was able to afford to bury his emotions in ten dollar cups of coffee and to lie to himself. He would tell himself he was above the being he just saw outside, he was not broken that way, he was stronger than that. The true essence of a class struggle.
As the escalator descended down into the depths of the Metro, I cast a final glimpse around. People scuttled about struggling to survive, struggling to cope, struggling to love. Some may never find love, some may never find happiness, but just before the roar of a passing train filled my ears I heard a lonely trumpeter, still pouring out his soul to the dissipating crowd. As long as life continues on this planet, as long as love enlightens ones soul, as long as loss still wretches a person's heart from its casing, that trumpeter will always have an audience. A gathering of lost souls waiting with bated breath to be enraptured by the sympathy from his music.
"Love is lost, love is dead. I thought I once knew love, but I was scorned too many times and all I know now is loneliness and disgust."
It was easy to locate the scene of the crime, there is something about a woman bleeding her heart into a microphone that lures in kindred souls, like moths to a flame. The open field at the end of the road was littered with countless of these souls. Some there for the image, some for the culture, but some still yet because they were fellow insects like me, crawling desperately in search of meaning, in search of someone who could understand.
The crescendo and decrescendo of the emotion and music fell flatly on the first two types. They are there to take it in at face value, a glimpse into a fading scene of days past. Culture of a time in America when things were tough and the people were tougher. Alas, things are still tough as are we, at least those of us with the true grit to see beyond the facade of a nation refusing to glance into itself, into its own eyes. It is in the eyes where you can truly see a person's soul. It is in the eyes that you also can distinguish who is truly broken, and it is the truly broken that make up the final third of the audience.
The music to these people, is life. It is the only glimmer of hope in a world that has long turned its back on the common person. The governments of the world spend billions upon billions of dollars to overthrow despots, fight disease, and wage wars on drugs, but how much is spent seeking a way to mend a broken heart? Philosophers and intellectuals will spend their lives in tanks of thought writing and revising the secrets of the world, but how much time do they spend thinking of a way to fill the bottomless pit from a heart torn asunder? How many doctors have found a cure to loneliness? These men and women, supposedly the greats of our age, never address or spend time understanding the antithesis to the love our Hollywood movies tell us about.
As a lonely rambling piano solo concludes, you can hear the true listeners let out a sigh. It is, however, not a sigh of defeat nor one of relief. Instead it is the exhaling of a long held paranoia. A fear from deep within that, despite the words of countless pop singers, we are all alone. This fear is unlocked by the key and assuaged away by the signature of the time. They realize, even if only until the music stops, that someone out there understands. Someone else has had all that they held dear, all that mattered to them, thrown to the gutter as a result of the imperfection in human nature. Does love exist? Does it matter? The eyes of the broken care not, for at that moment in time, you can see relief wash over them. You can feel a gentle lifting of the down-trodden. The music enraptures them in its hold, and for that song they can feel no longer be alone.
A flick of a lighter, the burning of a cigarette and we are once again on the street, once again a part of the cruel reality of the times. A dirt covered man in rags shares some lingering awkward eye contact with his polar opposite at the bar inside of the Starbucks. Social norms and conventions tell you that these two men could not possibly be more detached from each other, but if you were there to witness the scene as I had you would know this is false. It could not have been longer then several seconds they maintained this contact, however in that time they both knew all they needed to know about each other. Though worlds apart these two men saw a common bond in one another. Each man was broken and defeated. It was as if in this act they told each other, "I understand. You are not alone. I suffer too."
The man in the rags continues past, pushing his shopping cart down the street for what might as well been his millionth time, a feat that gets no easier with age. While both men had to struggle through love and loss, this one must also deal with the constant judging eye of an uncaring public. He had to find sustenance in a trash can and shelter in a box. The raggedly clothed man had to fight for survival while fighting off the emptiness inside. The man at the bar was able to afford to bury his emotions in ten dollar cups of coffee and to lie to himself. He would tell himself he was above the being he just saw outside, he was not broken that way, he was stronger than that. The true essence of a class struggle.
As the escalator descended down into the depths of the Metro, I cast a final glimpse around. People scuttled about struggling to survive, struggling to cope, struggling to love. Some may never find love, some may never find happiness, but just before the roar of a passing train filled my ears I heard a lonely trumpeter, still pouring out his soul to the dissipating crowd. As long as life continues on this planet, as long as love enlightens ones soul, as long as loss still wretches a person's heart from its casing, that trumpeter will always have an audience. A gathering of lost souls waiting with bated breath to be enraptured by the sympathy from his music.