Post by JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS on Sept 5, 2011 1:40:54 GMT -5
Erik sat quietly in the back row.
He had hardly heard a word of the mass. Really, he had no idea why he had attended it at all. Except that he needed to be here. He needed to be surrounded by the music that they produced in a cathedral such as this. The music was raw, passionate, and moving. He'd always admired Christianity for producing it, though its teachings left much to be desired.
Now he sat alone, the notes of the organ and the choir still ringing in his ear. It was exhilirating, really. He didn't care what the message was. There was no sacred land, no heaven above. He didn't care that it was all in Latin. He didn't care that the people around him had been hardened worshippers. He didn't care when they gave him evil looks when he didn't bow to pray, didn't sing, didn't do anything really but just sit there. He just listened, and that was enough.
The silence was beginning to become deafening, and he contemplated leaving. There was no more music now. However, the organ beckoned to him from above in the balcony, and he got up, making his way toward it. It was strictly off limits to the public, but what did he care? He was quite a powerful man, if not a bit of a recluse. He would always have his way.
He would just terrify them into submission.
He sat at the organ and lightly played a small melody he conjured up from the dark recesses of his brain. He didn't care if anyone was listening, didn't expect them to. He merely trembled under the power of such an incredible instrument, and relished playing in it. It wasn't much, but the organ comforted him in his times of need, and he was saddened when he had to be reduced to mimmicking its sounds on an electric keyboard. The sound was not meant for the fake. It was meant to be felt.
Real. Passionate. Raw.
He played on.
He had hardly heard a word of the mass. Really, he had no idea why he had attended it at all. Except that he needed to be here. He needed to be surrounded by the music that they produced in a cathedral such as this. The music was raw, passionate, and moving. He'd always admired Christianity for producing it, though its teachings left much to be desired.
Now he sat alone, the notes of the organ and the choir still ringing in his ear. It was exhilirating, really. He didn't care what the message was. There was no sacred land, no heaven above. He didn't care that it was all in Latin. He didn't care that the people around him had been hardened worshippers. He didn't care when they gave him evil looks when he didn't bow to pray, didn't sing, didn't do anything really but just sit there. He just listened, and that was enough.
The silence was beginning to become deafening, and he contemplated leaving. There was no more music now. However, the organ beckoned to him from above in the balcony, and he got up, making his way toward it. It was strictly off limits to the public, but what did he care? He was quite a powerful man, if not a bit of a recluse. He would always have his way.
He would just terrify them into submission.
He sat at the organ and lightly played a small melody he conjured up from the dark recesses of his brain. He didn't care if anyone was listening, didn't expect them to. He merely trembled under the power of such an incredible instrument, and relished playing in it. It wasn't much, but the organ comforted him in his times of need, and he was saddened when he had to be reduced to mimmicking its sounds on an electric keyboard. The sound was not meant for the fake. It was meant to be felt.
Real. Passionate. Raw.
He played on.
