Eternity [Poets Of The Fall] Français/English

[EN] 1 - Souvenirs (Carnival Of Rust)

Jari was alone at the studio. As often, he had arrived early in the idea of warming up. He always enjoyed those moments of calm and solitude where he could relax. Since the young man didn't sleep much, he had plenty of time to enjoy these mornings.

So, this morning of November 2nd, he woke up, took a hot shower and got dressed before leaving for the studio. Mechanically, he had left his dog at home, thinking that he would walk him when he'll be back, in the afternoon, and walk to the building where he and the band to which he belonged came to play. When he arrived, the brown had not really looked at the music room and had immediately settled in the break room, letting his backpack slip at the foot of a wall and placing his coat on the back of a chair. The place was not very big, but had a table, chairs, a couch and a counter that the musicians had chosen as a pantry. Jari rubbed his hands together to warm them because of the usual Finnish cold. He went to the counter, pulled out a cup from one of the cupboards, and began pouring himself a tight coffee to which he added a sugar. He never liked the bitter coffee

As he sat down to drink, Jari thought the day might be exhausting, he would have no respite on that special day. A smile passed over his face but disappeared almost instantly, replaced by a suddenly melancholic air. The young man closed his eyes and sighed before bringing the cup to his lips and swallowing a sip of coffee. This year he would have a good day. At least, he wanted to try, and had no intention of being shattered by his sad dreams. The brown man got up and retrieved his bag from which he pulled two light wooden sticks. In this gesture, a thick, aged piece of paper fell from his bag. It was folded in half but there was something written in black ink. Jari leaned over and picked it up gently, without unfolding it. He paused before putting it away in his jeans pocket. He went to the table again and finished his drink quickly.

It was already daylight. Jari glanced at his watch, which indicated 8:15. His friends would not be here before 9:30 and he had time to enjoythe studio. So he went back to the music room and stopped suddenly. His eyes had just landed on a bright red electric guitar that wasresting near a new amp. It was not his owner's habit to part with it and he never left it at the studio. If it was surely an unimportant oblivion, this element had a much more pronounced effect on the drummer. He sighed heavily, his eyes sad. How could he prevent his usual thoughts from tormenting him today, when it had been ten yearsto the day ? Finally resigned, the brown advanced towards the instrument. He saw a white pick marked with an O and a T dropped casually on the top of the amp. Jari gently took it between his fingers in a moment that seemed to last an eternity. Then, in a slow gesture, he raised his left hand, grazing with his fingertips the strings of which he perfectly knew the sound. He scanned the object with infinite tenderness and out of time. A nostalgic air floated over his face, and after a long moment he removed his fingers and turned away. It was useless, vain, and he knew it.

Now Jari was sitting on the platform, majestically enthroned with his black drums. The man was motionless, his eyes glassy and empty, turned towards the piece of paper he held in his hands. That was all he had left. Of course, after getting lost near the guitar, the drummer had tried to think of something else, to resume the course of his day, but what was the point ? His memories had caught up with him quickly. He had settled for a moment on the leather seat facing his instrument and with a sure hand, he had tightened his snare, adjusted the opening of his hi-hat, brought his cymbals close and tightened some items under the tomes. Once settled down, but without much enthusiasm, he had begun to play at last and he had let his hands guide his drumsticks, like extensions of his arms. Drummer for years, Jari no longer needed to pay attention to what he was doing, the music joined him as soon as he closed his eyes. But today, the heart was not there, and after only a few minutes, he had abandoned this instrument so dear to his heart, unable to play any rhythm, any melody, depositing his drumsticks on the skin of the volume low. Right after, he had risen and walked to the window. His eyes had sought to flee with his mind, through the snowy landscape they saw through the window, but they were quick to slip to the bright red instrument. It was too much. Why did his thoughts always have to bring him back ten years earlier ? Why couldn't he forget ? Why had he stopped living for a decade ? The brown had let his fingers drift to the guitar's neck and gently sound the strings. He had paced for a long time, alone and lost. Finally, he pulled the paper out of his pocket and dropped onto the platform. Passing a hand through his hair, he had, with the other hand, unfolded, in immense delicacy, the photograph that he never left.