Dilemma

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The wind is blowing but you are not cold. You dream of a warm autumn evening, but the wind is getting stronger; because the hotter Paris is in the summer, the cooler the autumn. You walk to the accompaniment of music from street musicians. You are drifting towards the Seine. “There is music in life that is even more effective than the wind,” you think to yourself. Street musicians continue to play. It's evening. You don't know how fast the world is spinning, but time seems to pass quickly for you. Music is like a time machine, you go back years.

Past…

Your room is dark, you are afraid that if you turn on the light, they will notice you. There are books that shine a light on you in the dark, you lie down and want to get a book from the library. The book you want, not where you lie. You turn on your lantern and find the book you are looking for… First you smell it, you open it and get lost among the pages. The most enjoyable hours of the day are for you… You are alone on a beach that stretches out forever, you smell the sea, but it is not there. You read, dreaming of being able to write poems one day, slowly going over each line. The stories take you out of the room, far from the city, until a voice knocks on the door… Your father is again in front of the door, following the light coming from inside and calling out to you: Enough, turn off the light. You immediately turn off the flashlight. “You have a piano lesson in the morning,” your father calls out, your mother opens the door, “Ahhh, why do you need all this, you are either reading a book or playing the piano.” he expresses his dissatisfaction. If it's up to your mother, it would be wisest to go into business, so you will have to make a choice in the future; Even if you want to write poetry, you will prefer to play the piano. Holding a pen is no less important to you than touching the keys of the piano. You will continue your piano lessons, which you started with your father's request, by doing your best to be the best, sometimes you will even force things that you cannot do. You will sleep soon. When you wake up, it will seem like time has passed, for example, years…

Today…

You wake up with the door opening, you arrive from evening to night and then to morning, you are surprised. You want to be angry with the man who came through the door for interrupting your sleep, but you stop when you think about what he's done for you. Surprise does not turn into anger on your face. The man, on the other hand, is surprised that you are not angry, he walks to the window without looking at you, you want to lose your face in another emotion, in case meeting with the same feeling might bring you closer. He opens the curtains and turns to you and says "Good morning". “Should the first word after such silence be good morning, or should it be him saying good morning to me?” you think. You can't get the word good morning out of your mouth. “Drop the papers and get out!” You are awake enough to say, but you want to sleep again. The man puts the newspapers by his bedside, looks at his face as if to say see what you have, but says nothing. You just walk out of the room and look behind you. In a moment you will reach towards the newspaper, and when you do, your eyes will catch on your fingers and you will plunge into its emptiness, cursing the absence of the finger on your right hand. “Was it like this once?” As you ask yourself, your good and bad memories will come back to life.

Past…

Your fingers are on the keys and in front of you are the notes. Every time you touch it, it's like a note stands up, but you want them to run, it doesn't happen. You stop again, you start playing again, your fingers can't keep up with your eyes and you bang the keys in anger. You don't know how many repetitions this is. You start playing again, it doesn't work. This time you're angry at yourself, not the piano, you look at your fingers and think you can't play better because they're short. You're trying to pull it out from where your nails are. It doesn't happen... It doesn't happen... It doesn't happen... There has to be another way. You've spent your whole life dreaming of it. You read poems, you compose music, but you cannot play as you want. You want to play for Clara, it doesn't work. Clara is like a piece composed for you, but you can't play it, it's banned. Not only does the piano you can't play come between you and Clara, she also has a father who teaches you. You want to impress them all by playing better, it doesn't work. You dream of Clara; her graceful fingers dance on the keys, she plays much better than you, and the more you think about it, the more you get angry with yourself. You watch your fingers at the piano for days and you think again that the only reason you can't play well is because of those short fingers… You try various ways to lengthen them and after days you think you've found it. With a tool, you hold your fingers by your nails - despite all the pain - and pull them millimeters every day. You try to forget the pain by thinking about Clara. You pull again, again, again… You realize that your fingers can't stand it when your fingertips are crushed. You try to wrap your smashed fingers and play again, it doesn't work. When you place it in the machine and open it to pull, it starts to bleed and does not stop. You have to go to the hospital and you realize it's too late for that. They have to cut off your finger and when you open your eyes, “Mr. Schumann, you will not be able to play the piano anymore!” You will look at the doctor who says. You will face the fact that you cannot play the piano. Maybe you will not be able to face it and turn into a different person.

Today…

The janitor calls out to you, and you are still reading the article in the newspaper. The janitor said, "It's time for your session." says. In the middle of the article, you raise your head and say, stammering like someone caught doing a secret job, I'll finish this article and come back. Even if the janitor says you will be late, you keep reading: “Glory to Brahms”. He's calling you again. "That's what you did last time, Herr Eusebius!" He says and you get angry with the janitor. "Come on! Doctor is waiting for you,” the janitor says, approaching you. You stop and this time confidently says, “Please don't interrupt, I'm reading something important.” you can say. You keep your head down without making eye contact. When you come to the end of the article and see that it says 'Mr. Florestan', you get happy, take the newspaper and go to the doctor's office. While opening the door of the room, you think for a moment to hide the newspaper and you go inside. The doctor is waiting for you and asks why are you late? You point to the newspaper saying I had an important job. “Sit down, Mr. Euseb… Sorry Florestan,” the doctor says, and you interrupt immediately. Hey! Quiet please, they'll hear! They should not understand that I wrote these articles, just call me Schumann, please.

While you are sitting on the chair with the newspaper in your hand, the doctor asks how you are, and you say that I liked this article in the newspaper very much, at least there is something that I have succeeded in life.

“Why do you think so, Mr. Schumann?” says the doctor. You raise your right hand and point your fingers, and you say. The doctor won't be thinking like you because he tries to say good things about you and continues; you're a good… You don't let him finish his words by intervening; It was a warm autumn evening, maybe it was cold, I don't know. We always want to live life as a warm spring evening, but we don't want to think about winds blowing and strong storms. On such a warm autumn evening, while walking towards the Seine River, I lost myself to the music coming from the street, Brahms was playing at that moment. While trying to play the notes in the music with my missing fingers, in my imagination...

While reading these lines, I leave my reading unfinished with the music coming from inside and raise my head. A warm summer evening in Paris…. The wind is not blowing. I'm sitting in a cafe by the Seine and walking the streets of Paris with Schumann amid the smell of coffee. Once again, I draw a fine line between genius and insanity. Schumann, who was saved by falling into the gap between reality and dreams, is perhaps as he said; angels are whispering notes in their ears and thanks to those angels, I listen to their works while reading their books today.

Image: Postcard sent by Brahms to Clara Schumann on September 2, 1887. (Archives of the Berlin State Library)

1 Review

  1. You explained very well, I liked it very much, congratulations

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