Obsession Part 1

On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best, within, the furniture is as it alway was, and I am waiting, waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating. Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest, as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively, marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest, and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly. You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy, emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery. A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly, examine his conceptions with a true and honest face, only those who can conceptualize his grace. And we are bereft of conversation. The curtain falls between our faces, we are left with little else to say. Gone are common talk, and airs and graces, walls have grown, and bars along the way. Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true, reflecting what you feel within your soul, and you must follow them and share their view, as long as it will bring you to your goal. Friendship is a bond that can't be broken, even though you dally with your heart, you cannot spring the lock, that sacred token, that keeps your deepest feelings true to art. Your friends are pure disciples of your creed, they will legitimize your need to pave your way to conquer and succeed. Within the mellow of the violins, the sweetness of the celli and the horns, I hear a tattoo beating all alone, the tympani begin to pound a loud crescendo of their own. I listen, there is something out of tone. With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned, we wander through the garden unaware, take in the sights and pass without a care, as if our similarities don't matter, we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.