I miss the man with the yellow violin.
His high notes raised my commuter spirits every morning when it was needed. I was low, and he was an inspiration.
Violins usually play on mourning or sadness. They indulge the sympathy of sad story told by real life. The sound touches the soul of compassion.
But this yellow violin was destined for King’s Cross cross-ways amid commuter rush. The music and his enthusiasm and the spark was there to soothe and delight. That moment to stop and hear and reflect the morning commute. The wondering why I am here at this time in my life. The potential of it all, the parallel worlds alongside my daily grind. I am here to listen and my particular train is in vain because I know it wasn’t meant to be. Where it was taking me was the source of my despair. The beautiful soaring sequences were familiar and timely. They melted my heart in broken realisation of the route I was taking that morning.
The mourning yellow violin was special and bright, and my morning was special and bright to me. The blues had thawed the melancholy and the yellow lion spirit had brought the light.
I wondered if he enjoyed his job. I didn’t have to wonder. It was obvious. I mean, I projected. I wondered if I enjoyed mine. But, I enjoyed the commute, and I miss it now. I miss the man with the yellow violin.