in purgatory


It was still dark when he set off. Falling raindrops flowed over the leaves. The smell of the earth, caused by the raindrops falling on the ground, was a little comforting to him. As he walked through the park, he thought about how to begin, rehearsing it hundreds of times. He was excited again, thinking that the door would be slammed in his face as he had not received any reply to the letters he had written earlier. As his excitement increased, he kept the rhythm with the rain that accelerated. He remembered his last composition and the sheet music. He stopped abruptly as he wondered if the notes were in the correct order. “What if he doesn't like it…” he sighed. He lifted his foot off the ground, pulled it back before he could hit the ground again, turned in the opposite direction, and stopped going. He took a few steps, and when he saw his rain-soaked trousers rising towards the fire inside him, he stopped again and said to himself, "Why are you afraid?" He turned again and started walking, this time taking his steps without waiting for a raindrop to hit the ground. He left the park and crossed the street and stopped in front of a door. Would he knock on the door?

There are moments in life when a person is caught between doing and not doing. It is like walking on a bridge, sharper than a thin sword; choose. You never know which side you will fall on. When such moments come, how relieved you will be if a force decides your place. Is this why we rely so much on the word destiny? However, as a result of these decisions, life is a process that is knitted stitch by knot.

Plug… Plug… Plug…

A knock on the door was added to the sounds coming from inside. How could he compose under these conditions, he had been sitting at the piano for hours waiting. Saying that's enough, he pushed his chair and said, "Isn't there anyone to open the door, what is that noise?" yell. Clara, Clara… Clara stuck her head out of the kitchen and said, "What happened?" he went back to his work. He opened the door, looked at the young man standing in front of him from head to foot, and waited. “Excuse me, isn't it Mr. Schumann's house?” the young man said. “Yes, me too, Mr. Schumann,” he replied. "I'm Johannes Brahms, I wanted to see you." said the young man, and hesitated. "About what?" asked Schumann, who wanted to run away without looking back, since he still hadn't been invited in. "About my compositions..." said the young man in a desperate voice. While Schumann was thinking about what to do, Clara arrived and said, "Why are you keeping the door open, the children will be cold." then she saw the young man and said, "How wet you are, please come inside." he said, and met Schumann's eyes. He ignored Schumann's angry stare and turned to the young man, "Get your clothes off, go inside and warm up a bit." said. The young man wanted to say “Thank you” but froze for a few seconds.

There are moments when time seems to stop. If you take one step, you will fall, but if you stop, you feel as if you will sink. Time stands still for man, but everything else keeps turning. You get lost in that time. We do not know how many times a person experiences such moments, how he gets out of such moments. Everyone has the right to a choice and the doors that are opened as a result of this choice. Life is all these results.

Brahms... Brahms...

He called to the young man, Schumann. Now he was angry with the young man who did not move. “Hey, young man,” he said, taking her by the arm and Brahms came to his senses. “You were saying compositions,” said Schumann. “Well…Yes…” said the young man and began to explain. They went inside, talking, and Clara brought them a hot drink and sat down next to them. Brahms showed Schumann his compositions, while glancing at Clara from time to time. “I have written to you before, but I did not receive a reply, I did not want to disturb you.” said. Schumann looked at the compositions and was impressed, so impressed that he asked him to play them. Brahms got to the piano and began to play. Clara admired the way this man, who was much younger than her, played the piano. How she wished she could sit where he sat. A woman of thirty-five, a mother of seven, could not remember how long she had not been at the piano. She was now a wife, even Mr. Schumann's wife and mother of his children. Playing the piano was like memories from years ago. When the young man finished his first piece, Schumann and Clara made eye contact. Schuman said, "You like it, how well he plays, how talented." Brahms and Clara stood up. Brahms was thrilled with the accolades, while Clara, deep inside her, burst into tears as she applauded that undead pianist.

There are moments that take you back to the past. It's as if you're on a flying carpet and going over all the choices you've made. At such moments, you come back to all crossroads. You can choose again, but you want them to ask which one do you prefer this time, but no one will ever ask you this question. You wouldn't know what would happen if you chose the other one anyway. This is the name of the unknown, life.

My daughter…

Mom opens the door and says, "Come on now, girl." says. “That night Schumann and Clara embarked on a friendship that would last for years with Brahms.” I pause the book by reading the sentence. "What are you reading, you're lost." he asks. The name 'Light of Romance Clara'. “Aydın Büke's book.” I say. “What does it say?” he asks. "Well" I say. I want to answer but then I give up, then I want to answer again and before I can answer, he's out of my room. Did Clara feel the same as me? So in Purgatory… For example, when she married Schuman against her father's will, while she was known as Schumann's wife despite all her piano lessons and talent, when she met Brahms or when she had to play the piano like a grieving woman even after Schumann died...   


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