Reveries

Sofia Meirelles
Sep 1, 2018 · 3 min read

On the top floor of a highly modern building, surrounded by giant windows, she stares at the view, looking a little gloomy. It’s night and shiny. Nothing happened that day, but it was perfect for most people; since ‘perfect’ is not defined yet, I ask you not to do hasty assumptions. Well, didn’t I tell you that? This is a turbulent place to live, a megalomaniac city plenty of gray buildings, blinding lights and deafening sounds. Also, like any decent metropolis, people hurrying to get to their jobs and, of course, to be happy ever after.

She has it all. In a glimpse she can see every movement, every car horn, every cry of protest, every human laugh, every whining and not a single feeling. Her dress is long and almost transparent, but this is far from being a problem, nobody can see her in the top of the town. Delicately, she turns back, inhales her cigarette again with narrowed eyes, throws it on the sparkling floor and kneads it with her black scarpin. With her hands free, she picks up a gramophone record and puts it on an old sound machine, which her grandparents used to call “phonograph”. Perhaps she like this baroque thing so much because it remembers of her family — not the living –, inciting a nostalgic melancholy.

In the hurry of daily life, she just walk, smile, shake some hands and kisses some cheeks, maybe she even says “Good evening, sir” for some poor soul in the alley. Sometimes her dad calls her and ask for money; in days like this she used to buy a cappuccino with extra cream and go to the main bridge of the Town, Alasnumb.

Anyway, I was talking about this night, right? The elegant and powerful woman, on the verge of crying alone and lonely, fulfilled and empty with all its wealth. As the gramophone record spins, she concludes that the A minor chord is very appropriate, based on joy and attenuating it, being much more than the joyful A major, increasing its expression to a whole new level of tragedy.

Feeling rather hectic and not managing to sit or stand still, she lit the twentieth cigarette, waiting for something to reveal itself. Suddenly, a silence settled in her mind, but not for long enough to forget some questions. Are these nocturnal moments what it is worth living for? Why do the lights never fade? Why do the car horns wake you from sleep? Why do we infect the world with our humanity? Is this a naughty joke? Everything seems so meaningless from her weeping eyes.

With the wind blowing, her cigarette burned one last time. As the fancy glasses broke, the city lights began to slowly fade away and the cars stopped and collided. Such a scenario has revealed itself, fulfilling the desires of the woman, stripping her of any possible wills and making life blindly furious again. Despite all this pleasant mess, no noise could spread or be heard, except for the A minor chord.


I’ve been thinking of writing this short story since a long time, I hope to make it better someday. The inspiration came from Chopin’s Waltz in A Minor, B.150, Op. posth. Thanks :)

Sofia Meirelles
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