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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