Article: 178926 of talk.bizarre
From: (d.)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: minstrel ends
Date: 1 Dec 1994 21:55:47 GMT
Organization: Old Dominion University CS Dept.
Lines: 43
Message-ID: <3blgp3$>
Status: O

Then the day came that I didn't have any more songs to sing.  The
children looked at me sadly and patted me on the knees and back,
whispering soft words through wet lips.  Tears spilt down silently
onto my mandolin as I sat very still, not feeling the comfort they
tried to give me.

I stood and walked off.  Not one of them called for me to come back.

I walked straight through the cobbled city streets, lost in my own
emotions.  A young lady coming from a brightly-painted wooden shop
cursed at me vaguely as I passed by, a city guard stalked beside me
for a while.  A merchant's cart nearly ran me down.  I didn't care.

Eventually I found myself in the bazaar where the people were thick
and milling.  I pushed my way through the outer crowd but then found
myself trapped in the throng, unable to go forward anymore.  I stood
and stepped slowly, letting the people carry me along.

The crowd broke for a single moment to afford me a view of a beautiful
woman in green silks.  I didn't have a song for her, I turned my head
away in shame.

The bodies pressed up against me, shoving and pushing without reason.
All these people, too mindful of where they're going instead of where
they are.  If they only stopped for a moment and cast their eyes down
to where they were.  We all look too far ahead.

Yes, yes we do.  The realization felt like crescendo played on
celestial strings.  My knife felt cold and sharp.  I didn't stop to
think; I just plunged it into one eye and then the other.  Someone
screamed somewhere, a beautiful alto.  I wonder where my mandolin is.

They tell me I'm mad, but I've songs for the children again.  And I
never look farther ahead of me than my own feet.


Truth, tears and tirades.