It thundered mildly.
The gray sky sounded like some of their concerts. It was putting the rough and the fine tunes together, and the rain, falling down mildly, was reminding of their fans' sweat drops, which were to cool them down throughout the music halls during their mild roars, and passing into visible and invisible steam afterwards.
The band had fallen apart, and each went their separate ways. Each of them was trying to realize their blury plans in case of the worst that could happen. It could happen, and it did. ''The creative bankruptcy''. It was a challenge forged by the ''business' big boys'', the bands' producers and managers; they cunningly put all the responsibility on the band's lacking creativity.
For the band, it was a pure blasphemy. They didn't care muchabout their being personally offended. But to put together the words''creative'' and ''bankruptcy'' in a single sentence…that represented an assault on something that simply could not be assaulted. Combining the holy andthe profane… Although passion and creativity have much in common, all that managerial money grab didn't contain creativity at all. As far as they were concerned. And the ''bankruptcy'' remindes very much of ''banknotes'', which were the reason that they stopped to live. The sounds which were revealing the life of their fountain, disappeared. The only sounds coming out now were the fast beating of hearts and the creaking whirs of the air being inhaled through the often cramped noses. Those weren't sounds of life. They rather reminded of the hope of a man to whose forehead a gun's barrel was being pressed for too long, causing a barrel indent to one's forehead.
It had passed much time since they were together. Their keeping distance was helping them to go through their inner death easier. But, in their thoughts they began to very often return to their previous life. No matter, be it day or night time; they dreamed of it. In time this nostalgia grew so strong, that all the three of them started to feel an
incontrolable urge to meet each other again. This urge that they got the same time, and which they talked about afterwards, acted as the best first impression which later caused further meetings. The process of finding each other finished as a meeting at the arranged place: the abandoned pavilion in the park. It was a worn out place in the material sense; no one used to give it much attention anymore. But, it was the most attractive place for those who, conscious of their quality, wanted to convince themselves that the human concern about anything is transient.
The academics of certain kind would call them successful people, people who in their lives have gotten immense proof that tomorrow is uncertain, that it wasn't for sure that the people of today would stay the same tomorrow. The being's depths of the three would not just accept this proof, although the judgment was passed a long time ago. They were trying, at the time, to bury the immages around them, the way snow does to the autumn leaves, hoping that the completed process of rotting would purify them, set them free for a renewal. They lacked motive though. It's hard to fight people with a greater motive. Although their motive is greater, one's reaction has to be equal to their attack. And if one wanted to get back to the level at which they were beforehand, one has to find a greater motive for it.
Just like many before them, they too were happy while it lasted. The excitement lasted, the static which would, immediatelly after they would wake up in the morning or in the evening, catch their T-shirts, their snickers, their jeans. That repeating extasy would again and again recreate what was to be created out of them.
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I'll be unhumble and say: one of the saddest story one got recently, who knows
You know, the time we've always lived in... The some kind of market economy vs. people vs. some kind of market economy etc...
Originally Posted by oornelakes
