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Description
A song. Not a popular one, no, and neither an underground, for a small circle of appreciators' song. Just a song. A song probably only a few people on earth have heard, just like millions of others composed by regular people in the whole world. A song about nothing and at the same time about anything you want. A song that has no words but speaks to you in its own way. Not money, not houses, not paintings, not even writings, but just a song out of it all. Of course people will remember them all; some - the money, some - the houses and the paintings there, some - the poems and the stories. But it is not the money that is his biggest treasure, nor are the houses and all the wealth they keep within, neither the old fashioned poems and certainly not the short stories he wrote during long sleepless nights.

A song. A song he came with one long summer day, unaware of what he was creating. If he knew that it would be the last thing he ever composed he probably would have paid more attention to the process of crafting it. But the song was unplanned - a raw, spontaneous outburst of thoughts and fears, sweet lies and the bitter truth, the realisation of that bitter truth. A song that was never understood by the One who unintentionally and completely unaware of that fact became his muse, the everlasting fountain of inspiration overflowing beyond the reach of his hands, words, thoughts, his dreams... However, the song had a much greater impact on his life than a mere dedication to somebody: it became the hymn of it, the turning point of all his being. It was the first blow on the foundations of the old He, the prophet, which foretold the coming changes, the alienation of his old self, the collapse of his tiny little world he created around himself through which, like through a veil, his childhood would carelessly gaze out at the life around then arrogantly tuck itself back into the sandbox, pretending to be a free thinker who goes against the socially accepted behaviour, who believes that he is the centre of the whole fucking universe and that all the others around him are at his disposal to appease his every single whim and desire whenever he pleases, whatever be the cost.

A song that broke it all. That still breaks it all. A song that slowly flows into a powerful wave which softly crashes you, imminently spreading all your dreams into myriad atoms and molecules, that embraces you and exalts your mortal spirit in rare moments of sincerity, emptying every ounce of it, then gently puts it down on the sinful soil - into your flawed body. After which, all hollowed, your spirit longs for a purpose which that song took away in its final seconds exploding in a silent harmony, devastating your mind and soul, leaving you all alone, facing the world in its complete hopelessness. And that moment your heart bursts. Bursts out of pity for the World, for you then see how lonely it is, how cold it is, how much it needs an end to start anew. That moment you feel how weary the soil has become under our weight, for it bears not merely our bodies but our dreams and hopes and ambitions which expand as we go, in the end becoming the weight under which we break, and with us breaks the soil, embracing our remnants in a wooden box deeply buried in its heart - still weary of our presence. That's what the song meant to him.

And when the last spade of earth covers the ground above him, a song will be left. When all those people who have known him are gone, a song will be left. When the whole world with us all ends, a song will be left.