Ballade No. 1: Fryderyk Chopin
Snowflakes had been increasing outside and so as it was his
routine, he picked up his camera, got himself out of his Lazy-boy
chair and walked out his door, down the stairs, crossing the
large wide street to the park. He took only black and white
photographs, mind you, and when he did, he made it his habit to
run while taking them, so as to promote the action in the scene.
What that actually did, in comparison to his rather loftly
intentions, no one would ever really know except for him. And at
this point, did it really matter? No one had seen his pictures
for years, at least not since Bethany had died. After that had
happened he went months without the want to take a single shot.
He could still remember that block. And today, as he
frolicked amongst the flakes, he understood the vital importance
that came with the taking of the pictures. He understood the
vital importance of doing for the sake, those things that you
want, that keep you alive. And the clicking of the button grew
louder and more rapid. Something like a tommy-gun in a 1930's
mafia film or at least one based on the 30's.
Like a buzzing bee he ran passed the European tourists
sitting down on the benches outside, they had their ears and eyes
to the sky---embedded in the silence and dancing in the wonder of
the immediate scene. There were little children in their
snow-coats running into one another while trying to make balls
from the barely-sticking frozen wetness falling from the sky.
Their frenzy echoed the photographer's own and he was able to
reload and lose himself in the pleasant chaos. He spun around and
the flakes reflected the light from the pale white sky and
spinning behind him like an escapade, he twisted happily.
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