Ryan Amador likes this
Post by Deleted on Mar 13, 2020 19:08:38 GMT
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[attr="class","vgroup"] [attr="class","vogue"] [attr="class","mainv"]SPELLBINDER [attr="class","vlyrics"] When the tears come streaming down your face 'Cause you lose something you can't replace When you love someone but it goes to waste What could be worse? [attr="class","vcred"]Ryan Amador |
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[attr="class","vpostbg"]The concert hall was deserted that Tuesday morning, and that was precisely what brought him there. Vadim paused at the vast array of controls in the dark, cavernous place and, after a few attempts, had a single spotlight illuminating centerstage. He didn't rush as he made his way up, each smack of his careful steps on the floor reverberating through the dense silence. His eyes burned when he stepped out of the gloom and into the warm ray of artificial light.
Those same eyes fell to the case held loosely in one of his hands. Vadim pursed his lips in thoughts. Part of him wondered what he was hoping to accomplish. Would solitude and the booming, acoustic resonance in the concert hall bring back the passion to his playing that'd been missing since... Then? Did he want it to? Vadim should have missed feeling so connected to his music, as he had before the dark episode that'd happened in Seattle. Instead he just felt... Numb.
Playing opuses in the Astaria Orchestra was easy enough to do - the sheet music was a clear and nonnegotiable blueprint. You followed the notes, the measures, the stanzas. But to let his fingers and heart soar with each push and pull of his bow, as he had since he started playing? That was beyond him... and the thought of doing it again left a strange hollowness in his chest.
Vadim pushed aside his musings with a sigh sharp through his nose. He crouched down, opened his case and eased out first his bow, then his violin. He went through the habitual motions of tuning each string with practiced jabs of his bow and, when all was ready, he bit his bottom lip, staring into the dark shadows draping most of the monolithic concert hall. Vadim reached to the place that'd been so easy to fall into months ago. His mother called it his passion, his gift.
He set his jaw and let out one, ponderous, dirge-like note that resounded fantastically through the open space. It bled into another, just as thoughtful and restrained. Vadim closed his eyes, stuck between his desire to feel alive while playing again and the apathy that bogged him down. The tune caught something of a rhythm, the melody developing like a living thing with the curl of his fingers and the sinuous swaying of his bow. The strings of the violin began to shimmer, exuding a bizarre, mesmerizing light where the rosin-slicked bow met them.
More light gathered in tentative folds, like ribbons of aurora, in the air around him. But, just when the melody started to soar, Vadim's fingers locked in place. He stopped playing abruptly, cutting off a note short, and opened his eyes, which strained instinctively skyward. There was a spark in them that died with the fading music.
Those same eyes fell to the case held loosely in one of his hands. Vadim pursed his lips in thoughts. Part of him wondered what he was hoping to accomplish. Would solitude and the booming, acoustic resonance in the concert hall bring back the passion to his playing that'd been missing since... Then? Did he want it to? Vadim should have missed feeling so connected to his music, as he had before the dark episode that'd happened in Seattle. Instead he just felt... Numb.
Playing opuses in the Astaria Orchestra was easy enough to do - the sheet music was a clear and nonnegotiable blueprint. You followed the notes, the measures, the stanzas. But to let his fingers and heart soar with each push and pull of his bow, as he had since he started playing? That was beyond him... and the thought of doing it again left a strange hollowness in his chest.
Vadim pushed aside his musings with a sigh sharp through his nose. He crouched down, opened his case and eased out first his bow, then his violin. He went through the habitual motions of tuning each string with practiced jabs of his bow and, when all was ready, he bit his bottom lip, staring into the dark shadows draping most of the monolithic concert hall. Vadim reached to the place that'd been so easy to fall into months ago. His mother called it his passion, his gift.
He set his jaw and let out one, ponderous, dirge-like note that resounded fantastically through the open space. It bled into another, just as thoughtful and restrained. Vadim closed his eyes, stuck between his desire to feel alive while playing again and the apathy that bogged him down. The tune caught something of a rhythm, the melody developing like a living thing with the curl of his fingers and the sinuous swaying of his bow. The strings of the violin began to shimmer, exuding a bizarre, mesmerizing light where the rosin-slicked bow met them.
More light gathered in tentative folds, like ribbons of aurora, in the air around him. But, just when the melody started to soar, Vadim's fingers locked in place. He stopped playing abruptly, cutting off a note short, and opened his eyes, which strained instinctively skyward. There was a spark in them that died with the fading music.
[attr="class","cred"]VEL OF PIXEL PERFECT
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