People are creatures of habit. You are no stranger to such. Incessant, maddening, tormenting…..You go all-in, wagering every chip that you have on black. You repeat, replay, rewind….it’s never the same. Fortuna ensures variety is on offer. Every day….until even you start seeing the patterns in a seemingly Brownian motion transmitting from an analogue TV set.
You stare at the wilted roses sitting forgotten and forlorn in a vase smudged with fingerprints. You resist the urge to whisk them away. Quite easily so. Instead you surrender to the hypnotic notes of Satie’s Gnossiennes….No 3 Lent. You know them intimately, all six sheets, perhaps with the exception for no 6….far too upbeat for your liking.
Having nothing better to do you google Gnossiennes and stumble across an intriguing, if curious definition…
gnossiennes
n. a moment of awareness that someone you’ve known for years still has a private and mysterious inner life, and somewhere in the hallways of their personality is a door locked from the inside, a stairway leading to a wing of the house that you’ve never fully explored—an unfinished attic that will remain maddeningly unknowable to you, because ultimately neither of you has a map, or a master key, or any way of knowing exactly where you stand.
