hope. [10.25.08]

Anticipation. It burns through the crowd like fire, igniting in screams of excitement and gasps of awe. The lights flicker on and off, adding to the overpowering mood. The stage is empty, deserted except for the solitary microphones and the lone drum set. Suddenly, the lights wink out, extinguishing the sounds of the crowd with overwhelming darkness. In the sudden black, it is hard to see anything. Suddenly, a shape appears, outlined against the flat stage. The man takes three steps forward, his guitar swinging at his side. He lifts it up, finds the strings underneath calloused fingers, and strikes the first simple chord. The spell is broken. The crowd erupts. Hands clapping, feet stomping, they break into song with voices hoarse from cheering. The ballad sweeps across the packed arena in a crescendo of chords and harmony, mingled with the constant drumming and the steady strumming of the bass. Notes. Sounds. Screams. Voices. This is why the crowd is here. This is why they have come - to be lost in the crashing sounds of the music, to forget, for one night, that anything else exists. Words. Chords. Drumming. Sweeping. Clashing. Beating. Throbbing. Overpowering. The lights, beacons of brilliant power, flash in time to the music. On. Off. On again. Blinking. Winking. And then, as suddenly as it all started, it ceases. Silence reigns again. The whine of the guitar slowly dies down. The lights flash off for the last time. Quiet. Still. Silent. Enveloping in its grasp.

One solitary spotlight flicks on. It shines on the singer, illuminating him in its brilliant glow. The man is gazing down at his guitar, fingers tracing the patterns of chords across the strings. Slowly, he looks up at the crowd. He is tired. His eyes, two brilliant wells of hazel in the midst of his tan face, are piercing as they gaze over the multitude. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then sighs and closes it again. His hand moves, slowly, haltingly, and the broken verses of a song begin to spill from the strings. The notes are slow, almost stunted, an astonishing contrast to the power and fury of the previous song. The crowd is confused, almost perplexed by this strange turn. Shuffling, bumping, and fidgeting, they try to appear at ease. The man begins to sing, a simple song to match the workings of his fingers on the guitar. It is a song of sorrow, of exhaustion, of futility. On the dark stage, with only one light, the singer lays his life bare beneath the curious eyes of the crowd. As they gaze closer, they can see it now - the dark circles under his eyes, the sadness, the sheer exhaustion. This is not the picture perfect rock star, vibrant and carefree, that they came to see. This man is not perfect - he is flawed, desperate. His words speak of long nights on the road, far from home, far from family. They whisper of hurt, of pain, of sorrow. As the quiet chorus of the song builds, the atmosphere of the room changes. The man hums words of hope into the microphone. The crowd is still, caught up in the melody. The chorus stretches further, holding the crowd in its grasp. The man, tired, broken, alive, sings the words louder. His hands slip from the guitar and he holds them to the air. The crowd is breathing as one, bleeding as one, healing as one. As the last sounds of the song die away, as the singer lowers his clenched fists, as the silence comes once more, hope floods.