No Scherzo [OPEN]

[ARLEN NIGHTLARK]

"I feel like a novice, just as I felt before I knew anything of the keyboard. It is far too original, and I shall end up not being able to learn it myself."

He was a genius, a prodigy of music. His hands worked a deity's magic, his blood flowed with divine ichor. His compositions froze time, sent it to a temporary paralysis, blew the greatest of minds, broke the hardest of hearts; his gentle playing was the wind caressing the sun to sleep. Every scherzo, every nocturne, every waltz that dripped like amber honey from his fingers were more precious than precious itself; he breathed life into them and in turn, they danced on his breath, dipped and twirled through the legacy he left, the legacy that still lingered heavily on each tap, each staccato, each slur.

What a shame it was - no, a tragedy, the mother of all nightmares - for Frederic Chopin to have died so young.

At least, this is what goes through Arlen's mind. His eccentricity itself was alone to castaway all his opinions alone; only in his miniscule world did they ever count. The passion that reigned his heart, the fuzzy warmth that churned pleasantly in his chest every time he heard the mere name of Frederic Chopin - it was all utter rubbish to the rest of the world. It was, however, not such as bad as one would think - this could even be thought of as great, absolutely delightful: he was all by himself in his world, his tiny orb of classical galaxies and romantic stars and baroque moons, and he would not have to share it with anybody else.

Others, they could be a threat. They could tear apart his world, his Utopia, whether with their stupidity or their ignorance; their daft decision to follow the herd often provoked him into constant nights of insomnia, nights where he would simply lay on his bed, or lean back in his chair, and tilt his head up, ponder after ponder breaking into his brain, running in loops and loops and laps and laps until his brain could not take it any longer and combust into a billion pieces of squishy things of a tremendously ugly shade of pink. Only then would he be able to fall into seventh heaven, deep sleep; dreams would play like detached, choppy segments of random theatrical performances, then they would be forgotten the moment Arlen's eyes snap open.

He was thinking again, back against a towering tree, the silvery moonlight only half-washing him, as the moon was half-hidden behind curtains of dark clouds. Time seemed to have died a temporary death; was it twelve, or one, or two? He did not know, he did not care, it did not matter now. The thoughts racing in his head were - well, doing his head in, to put it frankly. They ran from imaginative what ifs (what if Chopin outlived Liszt? What would have happened? Would he be with Sand again? What if Chopin had a secret love affair with Liszt?) to heart-piercing whys (why was he fated to die so painfully? Why did he love Sand, of all people? Why was he so... emo?) to ear-stabbing what the fucks (what the fuck was with him and talking about his own fucking death?! What the fuck was with him and England?! What the fuck is with my current choice of words?!).

The wind picked up briefly, stroked his cheek with icy hands, before sweeping through his hair. A slight shiver snaked through his body. He folded his arms and pressed them tightly to his chest, his long legs bending as he dropped to the ground, leaves and twigs crusty through his clothes to his skin. Grow tired, he ordered himself, grow sleepy, long for sleep, exhaust!