Minutes of Ecstasy

st-lawrence-string-quartet

(St. Lawrence String Quartet)

Getting tired and aggravated by cacophonous instrument tuning, you are loosing meaning of the preparation. You are sitting there, waiting impatiently for opus to begin but instead, you are getting fed these meaningless exclamations of nothing. More and more you are getting saturated by this mis-balanced audio jungle, and sense of deception rises, gradually elevating you to a state of autistic-like absence and isolation. Drowning hopeless in the bottomless abyss of nonsense, you are wondering if change will ever come, if sacred manifestation of talent will ever be revealed.

And here it is. As it starts to fill flawlessly all available cavities of your soul, you immediately forgive. You are no longer a lab rat, you are no longer a powerless slave, chosen to be tortured by a supreme and being observed while at it. Warmth of certainty and light of assurance surround you and grow simultaneously in all directions, proclaiming nothing but ecstasy of understanding.

First resisting to its unconditional pressure but opening more and more, you are sliding side-to-side in its cradle, trying to achieve the ultimate climax on each and every swing. Further… coordinates of reality become amorphous, vague, and blurry, leaving you with fading away foundation and reason for sanity.

This ever ending carnival of emotions demands complete obedience and you feel that surrender is your only chance to survive and be rewarded. Continuously transiting to the unknown levels of pleasant autism, you are no longer yourself – you are helpless part of the whole, part of this well-orchestrated exposure of excellence.

Unexpected. The fatal ax of silence cuts off oxygen of expectations with its needless and irrational rudeness. Strong urge to scream is burning your throat in weak attempt of protest, to return to the Eden of sound… or at least not to acknowledge the End. But, nothing will save you; nothing will lead you to the salvation, to the clue for this upsetting charade. No matter… the hurtful but inevitable contrast of silence is final…

I.S. Bach: Adagio. Concerto for Oboe and Violin in C minor.