Far

aus Short-Stories

I have woven a song out of threads that reach down to the ground. They are fine threads, pastel and light. When you pick them up, you don’t feel any weight. If you put one of them between two fingers and press them together, you don’t feel it, you only know that it is there. I took pastel threads because they are almost invisible. The loud tones are harder, hurt the ears and the heart. You can feel the fragile pale tones further down the body, in the stomach and in the hips. They vibrate, but we only feel it when we are completely still. These sounds travel far, can even cross oceans. They are said to meander along the surface of the water, over quiet waters and through storms and to climb out again on the other shore. I took the pastel threads because I know you’re far away and I want them to find you. I woven the honey melon and salmon threads together to produce the softest tones. They lie weightless and cool in my hands, and their soothing sound sings of an unusual harmony. Coral and sky blue entwine around them, frame them. These two sound like the songs that you hum to children to save them from nightmares. The steel blue thread runs through the song like biting tears, like cold dew on soft grass. I have woven them all confusedly, there is no rhythm and no chorus, only the threads that emerge and descend, wrapped in and around each other. I have knotted them well, they should hold, forever. And I left them long, so that the ends would drag along the floor when you put the song over your shoulder and carry it away. I would like to hang it somewhere where the wind can play with it, so the sounds can easily flow away. Nobody knows if the wind has anything to do with it, but I think you hear the song much clearer when it can move, the tones are carried away more easily. Maybe I’ll look for a place by the sea where I can hang it. But the salt in the air will fade the colours over time. Then only a single note will be left, a high vibration in the chest that could come from anywhere. But I want you to hear my song, with my threads that I left long. I have to find a good place for the song. I’m on my way now, carrying it until I find the rock where I can hang it. Maybe it will be a branch, or the skeleton of a rusty crane. I will find a place. It should be a spot with a little sun, so that the light can warm up the sounds. If there is sun and wind, I will leave the song and hope you hear it. I think you are far away. If you had stayed close, I would have woven another song, maybe even with some black threads, although the black ones sound dull and hollow and their sound dissolves immediately. If you had stayed close, I might not have woven a song at all. Maybe I would have searched for you and found you and brought you something you would have enjoyed. But because you are far away, I took the threads in soft colors and wove a song. The pastel tones can even hide between the clouds, they are so delicate. You will be able to hear the song for a long time, until the rain has eaten holes in it and its sounds unite with the rustling of the trees and the rippling of the rats. Then only a few threads will remain to dangle in the wind, there will be no more song, only a sound that cannot be distinguished from all the other sounds in the world. But until then it will take a long time, until then the song will flow to you over oceans for many years and you will hear it and maybe think of me or not.