some flowers never bloom

mishka denisov they/them | twenty-one stablehand at the racetrack

[mishkadenisov]

i  wanted  nothing  but  for  this  to  be  the  end  / for  this  to  never  be  a  tied  and  empty  hand  / if  all  the  trouble  in  my  heart  would  only  mend  / i  lost  my  dream , i  lost  my  reason  all  again

[mishkadenisov]

location { the nightingale } ; time { 20:30, post-performance } ; tag { open } ;

Moscow bestowed a plethora of cultural gifts upon the stable hand's doorstep and the theater had stolen their attention above all else. The static radio of their youth could not compare to watching an orchestra; horse-hair bows pulling expertly across taut strings while deft fingers danced across wooden necks. Feeling the melody reverberate against their chest as if it were their own heartstrings being played. Every payday, Mishka spent their evening at the theater, feeling closer to God--they would never admit aloud--than they could ever feel at a church.

They waited in the stairwell for the final note of the orchestra. It was not impatience for the symphony to end which held them so close to the exit--it was the anticipation of the crowd swarming the exits. Seated, the crowd was a sleeping beast but standing -they became an endless ocean and Mishka often fought to keep their breath steady as they felt buried beneath it.

A wave of clapping erupted from the theater and Mishka gave their own short, obligatory claps before they trotted down the stairs and out the doors into the December air. They were met with a dark, snowy sky. How quaint, how spectacular the music had made such a mundane evening. The snow felt otherworldly as the grip of percussion and strings continued to play in Mishka's subconscious. They closed their eyes and inhaled the frigid air, finding a peacefulness they would have never thought possible two years ago.

The crowd filled the streets as Mishka clung to the walls outside of the theater. Here, braced safely against the solid surface, they could watch the sea of faces as they met, chattered, and said their goodbyes. This, Mishka mused, was all part of the show as well. The wealthier residents in their elegant furs and coats under the snowfall were like actors secretly playing a role in their own ballet. They would watch and wait until nearly everyone was gone--if they were lucky, sometimes they would even catch a glimpse of the musicians leaving as well.

[liewhite]

pale/white aesthetic || ©