Sunteți pe pagina 1din 1

Story by Andreas Jrgens

Daylight Symphony A dagger stings into her barely rested body. She would have changed the alarmclock long time ago for one with a less harsh sound if she wasnt such a late riser. The intimate scent of the steaming coffe machine brings a tiny relief embracing her as a warm yellow morning carpet on her way to the bathroom. Sweet promise for a cosy breakfast at the beginninig of her daily symphony. Water rinsing her skin like the concert of raindrops falling on spring leaves, the taste of toothpaste - a clanking cymbal in the tibetian morrning sun. Sparkling lights on the wooden corridor hum smooth and warm. She leaves home with music in her head and music resounds from everywhere. Trafc noise pervades the streets accompanying the vibrant hue of advertising panels, signposts and ashing lights and the colourful display of greengrocers at Brixton market play a vivant spring-music that rises a smile on her face while heading for the subway. The sounds of the morning are sweet and refreshing but in the subway delight ends. Haste everywhere. Stressed faces, grey and black cloth, turbulent chatter and ringing mobile phones: a drab swoosh of nothing but te sound of crinkling paper mixed with roaring plant in her ears. She plugs in her earphones - Prokoev, Symphony No. 1- a ush of energy against the crawling anhedonia around her. It is fun to watch this stressed grey mass of businessmen entering the train with their exhausted expression totally differing from the playful sound of the orchestra. The whole stream of people, lost in their upcoming duties, all of a sudden perform a bizarre and complex but amazing stucturized dance, owing through Londons dismal underground. She leaves at Islington. Routine has crept in at the travel agency, coating her work with a slightly glaucous, bluring haze, which is broken at times by some telephone calls of either highly ambitious elderly women with a sprinkled yellowish voice, booking their next all inclusive cruise, or some rather red coloured tones in the enraged voice of their husbands complaining about the lacking service and the inapropriate condition of the onboard bowling alley. Today she will quit earlier to run some errands and, evetually buy the blouse she fell in love with three days ago in the little shop at Soho. She leaves "Maries Boutique" shrouded in a mandarin and tenderly rose cloud of wellness and satisfaction and decides to take a walk over the Embankment bridge to enjoy the spring sun and maybe have a white coffe from some coffee cart at the promenade. Its a nice and warm day and loads of tourist swarm over the footbridge taking pictures in front of the London Eye. All at once something makes her bleaching out all her troubled sorroundings. The strong and sophisticated changing colour of marine blue that starts mufing her makes her halt unintentially. This intense tint emitted by the young chello playing busker seems to virtually soak her whole environment with a lavender scent of total calm and pensiveness. She leans on the handrail and listens absent minded until a bobby breaks the scene banishing the young musician due to lacking permission. The whole evening she spends thinking about the boy who played his chello not only for loose change but with passionate ambition and covers herself in the the feeling of warm coloured wood on her skin.