THE GREY ALBUM
PHOTOGRAPHY & STORIES IN PROSE
by Christopher Kay
The first step was taken towards a new path.
She had seen this type of path
many times in the light of day,
but in this instance,
only fragile illumination existed.
Her foot quivered as she took her second step
towards the truth she'd always asked for.
The darkness in the distance
made it impossible to know what lay ahead.
Each archway looked the same as the previous,
and the further she forged ahead,
the more infinite the path appeared.
But then something changed.
She looked behind her and
realised how far she had come.
The path ahead, albeit unknown,
was much shorter than what was behind her.
Confidently, she moved through the door,
into the unknown,
and now understood
exactly what she needed to do.
A night of Wagner.
The sounds of the orchestra
elegantly filled the gaps
of conversations about the beloved Cosima
and inspiration for Siegfried Idyll.
The Winter’s night felt deathly cold,
but the attraction between them
had grown to beautifully terrifying proportions.
Both had come from places of pain
and emotional trauma
and hadn’t forgotten how to love,
but had simply forgotten to love.
The last few weeks had left them tightly wound,
things unspoken, things untouched.
He set the mood.
Warm pools of light filled the room
and reflections of candlelight
danced majestically on the walls around them.
It was then that she revealed her grand gesture.
Something to relax.
Something for warmth.
He is an artist.
In body. In mind. In spirit.
But necessity had led him down
quite a peculiar path indeed.
He had to pretend he was something he was not,
ensuring his bread and butter was earned
so that he could live a comfortable, solitary existence
in his little corner of the Earth.
As he hid amongst the collars of white,
his artistry began to break through the seams.
A fire would still idly burn
in the darkest parts of his eyes, and bring
an extraordinary brightness to his entire demeanour
whenever he spoke of ‘art’.
Yet under this new identity,
he was constantly sought after for his gifts,
and had felt used by those
whom would never really know the real him.
They would fly him everywhere
in order to tap into the brilliance
that he was trying to hide from them all,
and on that fateful day of inevitability;
the sun was setting, the plane touched down
and the taxi ushered him to his tiny hotel room
complete with single-serve mini bar.
He stood on his balcony and with a clear sky
and an even clearer mind,
and he finally remembered
that all of this was only a detour.