Updated: Jan 24
Spain, Pamplona, Plaza del Castillo. 2021.
The bustling central square seems to ignore him, he stands in inner silence and plays his tunes. Not for the passers-by, not for the one-time balcony critics. He plays for his ancestors who are watching him, standing behind him, giving him the wind to keep his flutes going.
On the surrounding benches sit blank those who will never know the truth, perhaps humming themselves as a more familiar tune. He stands still, his fingers keeping the time with deep familiarity. His feet firm on the ground yet are ready to soar. All those who are pacing by are neither there nor here.
He straightens his back, his lungs remember every single breath of air they took on the road, his spirit carried on top of his melody. Once again, Standing in a foreign land, with the same one-time strangers dancing their repetitive dance away, each one with his passing story, their eyes closed, as they have learned.
His open eyes see well into the distance, he identifies the one who is seeing him, the one who knows his soul, the one who knew it from the beginning, his alley. When he plays it's just them and their connecting senses, quickly ascending from the wall-made illusion surrounding them. Only the two of them are there, In this rare essential moment when they can finally breathe. The player closes his eyes while the viewer opens his, giving each other another moment of rest, of peace - a shared, beating moment where strangers remember their same journey.
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