You sit, patiently, in your chair as the conductor waves his arms one last time. The night has been long – sometimes too long, sometimes not long enough, sometimes just right. Sometimes. It’s all about the odds, isn’t it?
He waves his arms with flourish, a dramatic end for his dramatic harmony. Not his, you think. For all the times he listens to the music in its soothing beauty, for all the times he feels the music as it warms his soul – it isn’t his. It will never be his.
The crescendo which precedes the end now sounds, and the music swells. The audience moves to alertness with hands at ready for claps of appreciation, you amongst them. And in your head, as the symphony comes to the limitations of its own finiteness, the beginning notes begin to rise in your mind. In your head, you hear them; in your head, those provocative allusions to what would come are now taunts and you remember, yes you do. You remember the anticipation, the wondering, the ability to lose yourself in the overwhelming magic of the music before it was tainted with the human proclivity to waste the most valuable things in life.
In the brief moment of pivotal silence before the auditorium erupts into cheer, you think to yourself how very beautiful it had been then.
Because at the end, you always start thinking about the beginning.