Time had stopped. The birds suspended in the air, their wings locked in symmetrical arcs, indefinitely forbidden from completing their cycle. The wind froze, but that is a paradox; for if the wind had ceased its subtle motion, would it still be wind?
In front of him was the continuation of his life. It came in the form of another man. His thick, opaque moustache guarded his lips, and ultimately whatever enigmatic expression it had formed underneath. The aged man’s eyes forever gazed into his own in this instance of infinity. He desired ignorance of the moment which ensued the current indefinite moment, but it was of mere futility, for he already knew what had entailed. He had always foreseen the moment, and even the most powerful of desires could not undo this burden of his existence. Was his predicament so dire that time must, and had ceased for his coveted moment of serenity?
Does reality exist merely in one’s conscious perception? It must, for in this instance, the lack of will to continue in his consciousness forbade the melody of reality to play its proceeding note. The abjection of this infinite moment where time had not played a brown note, or a wrongful note, but not any note at all had crossed his singular consciousness. He had yearned for this moment before, but now he only longed for understanding.
Do you recall the moment when you first parted with your mother, the severing of your umbilical cord; your first rite of passage? Perhaps not; but would you? Would you want to remember the expiration of your only utter security? The assertive, sinister force which had compulsorily thrust you into the mercy of reality? This was his crisis. This time, it was different. He willed. He had waged his war against reality; he gave reality his answer within his thoughts, and he had won. This was his victory.
Had he considered the true conditions of his victory? He had achieved it; the product of wind without motion. It was, after all, what he had desired; it was his salvation, to conquer the currents of reality by halting time. It was the ceasing of progress, the defeat of change. But what was it that he had achieved? It had plagued his consciousness. It had robbed him of his solace. It was him, alone, who beared the melancholy of what he was. He was the frozen wind; the erasure of purpose, a breeze without movement. Just like the gentle gust, he had lost his identity. But there was still a final resort to retreat to; a certainty which he had hitherto convinced himself as a mere possibility.
And without a succeeding thought, it began. Life had gradually resumed. Time had subtly touched him again. Reality had taken back its stance. He had understood the world. The rigidness of the arcs of the birds’ wings melted as it shifted – fought – to complete its phase. The indistinguishable stillness had lost its enigma; it was the wind once again. Even the man’s thick moustache danced to the return of its friend. Before him, the other man’s lips which were hidden behind his thick moustache parted to the distorted continuity of time, and he braced for his inevitability; the very event that he tried to hide from. It was the subsequent words from the moustached man’s lips that had defined this moment.
Dedicated to the idea of “creating stillness,” the latest from Rohne offers hushed electroacoustic songs that gently sway. Bandcamp New & Notable Oct 3, 2021