“Last night, I saw a woman dance to solemn music.”

“Solemn music?” I said.

“Like a catholic hymn.”

“No way…”

His face shot with excitement.

“I swear, man. She had this old radio set out in the veranda. I think it was silent night. Didn’t have a care in the world.”

“She let herself go,” I said.

He nodded. We both smiled.

“Man that’s beautiful.”

We went silent for a while.

“What about you? Find anything?”

I shrugged.

“Not really.”

* * *

Loneliness is a form of art. And like all art forms, it has its styles of expression. The catch though, is knowing how the artist has chosen to show craft.

Sometimes, my friend and I would pack our tool kit, and disappear into the night. We’d map our routes extensively, all that planning, so our paths never intercepted.

We’d feature in as many stories as we could find; catch them as they drifted in cold night breeze.

This was serious business. We collected the places we visited, in different colours. Until for us, the city became a rainbow of nocturnal memories.The next morning we’d circle back home, and talk about work.

Loneliness was art; our minds our canvas.

Over time, we had amassed an impressive collection. Little memories of little things.

For me, the best stories were of things even the night didn’t offer. Love and romance. Dreams of growing old with a woman with twitchy eyes. Things like that.

There always was the suspicion we kept the best stories from each other. That we hid our masterpieces in private chambers for special memories.

The night before, I met Mr. K.

* * *

The old man sat under the broken streetlight, from where he gave music to the night. From his piano leached a thousand memories and dreams; hints of souls trapped in strings and notes.

I walked up to him.

“Don’t you feel cold?” I said.

He kept with his music.

I sat down beside him. He smelled of alcohol and harmattan.

“The night. The cold. The loneliness. Why do you play?”

He said nothing.

I stood up to leave.

“I play for the night,” he said. “ — And the cold…and the loneliness.”

“That appears to be something we share,” I said.

“What?”

“Loneliness.”

I sat down.

We spoke of music and youth. Of dreams and love. Of loneliness.

He told me his story. About a woman in his youth. She’d fallen in love with his music, and he with her brilliant eyes.

“The way they behaved whenever she spoke of flowers,” he said.

“Did they twitch?” I asked.

“Yes!”

His face lit up.

* * *

“Would you like to buy flowers?” she said.

Her voice was music.

“I wish I could. I don’t think I have enough money,” the man said.

She nodded.

“But to be honest, I can’t trust myself to take care of them like you do.”

She smiled.

“No amount of kind words will get you free flowers,” she said.

“Fair enough. I think that’ll be good for the flowers. In fact, I think the best way to ensure they survive, is not to sell them. You love them too much.”

“And you talk too much,” she said.

He shrugged.

“I’ll be on my way now.”

“Come around again tomorrow,” she said.

“So you can defeat me again?”

“Yes.”

* * *

When he couldn’t walk to her place, he wrote. She wrote back.

Then it became a habit. They would write even when they had seen each other the day before.

Short letters — notes, if you will. Footnotes they left each other when time stole pages from the little stories they built together.

One day she even sent flowers with her note.

It said, “Not for your kind words, but for your kind spirit.”

“She had a beautiful way of fusing memories with gestures,” he said.

* * *

One day he sent a note.

It said, “Let’s dance, to the rhythm of our heartbeat.”

She wrote back.

It said, “…but my heart is chaos.”

He wrote a note. She didn’t write back.

* * *

He never stopped writing her. He never stopped replying the notes he sent her. Not even time could steal this story from him.

He was going to tell it, to himself.

* * *

The little girl fell on her knees, and mourned.

“Why does nature hate flowers so much?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Nature gives quick death to animals. But flowers die slowly, piece by piece. Why do they have to hurt for so long?”

“But are you not missing something?” her mother said.

“What?”

“The love affair between nature and flowers,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“True lovers never let go of each other at once. They do so, slowly, piece by piece, gracefully. Letting go is a rite of passage.”

The little girl smiled. Tears descended her cheeks as quickly as her twitching eyes let them.

“They’re telling their love story,” she said.

“Yes, they are.”

* * *

The next night, I stayed home. I thought of the people I’d met on other nights. I wondered if they too were artists, showing their craft, and if I had missed their style of expression.

Perhaps I featured in someone’s art, too. Perhaps I hang on their wall as a masterpiece — but who am I kidding.

I thought of the solemn dancer, and if she thought herself a performer. Her veranda her stage, the night breeze her audience.

Mr. K. built parallel universes where his dreams came true. Worlds that lurked between morphemes. Romance trapped in ink.

I thought about the woman I bumped into at the park some nights ago. I wondered if I’d spilled her ink. If I made a mess of her art. I hope she recovers from that.

In a way, we all are artists. Every day, we pack our tool kit, and disappear into a canvas of our loneliness.

* * *

Here's a beautiful piece of music:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LIrWY48Kih4

I originally published this story on:https://medium.com/literally-literary/the-art-of-loneliness-46928ea11d74