Op. 47: III. Adagio - Charles-Valentin Alkan, Tatjana Vassiljeva, Jean-Frédéric Neuburger

The daylight is deep and disknowing. We are above, looking down, somewhere far beyond all seeing eyes. Nobody can see us. The sky around us is untouched, unimpeded by anything. There is us, invisible and immaterial, and the Blue. Above us, something cold, something waiting, something ready to fall upon the world in any waking moment. We do not give it spare thought. Today will just be us. We descend today, like a hot iron moving down a button-up shirt, ironing out all creases to the hem, sharing all we are with the world that feeds us, dowsing our abilities and our notions of self into creating a whole new identity.
Invisible, forgotten memories fly around as we delve, letting lose our vertigo, becoming a part of the never ending blue. The wind scatters the warmth around us. We see, from our great height, water reflected back onto us. The waves sail past small, dense beaches. We will not be visiting them. We move, down and through, fast and quick, emerging from where memories rest, into a deeper, well worn island. The island takes the form of a strange shape, unfixing and, with how the water moves around it, unfinished. On closer inspection, the water moves around the island. It flows around the impending terrain, never clashing, unless by force. The water makes its way out of our sight, as we come closer. The island, small, is still dotted with vast fields. They are a mix between well prepared for coming harvests, and others untouched for uncounted years. Both are rich in lost memories, but we are not here to feed. The fields are dotted with small, angular houses. People sleeping, people who have slept for such a long time.
People waking, people realising how late the day is, people growing bored of the island further. Small, dusty roads connect the island. Larger, blacker roads line the island like a peninsula, denying the isolation from whatever connections the island once harboured. The island is as though cuffed to the mainland by motorways, unable to search for freedom, let alone grasp it by any measures. The small interior roads, and gentle slopes formed at the middle of the strange, small island compose the last bastion of individuality, though hostilities have long passed. Now, what remains are empty fields, promising crops and exhausted livings. It is as though the people living here lose something in the summer months, part of them dispersed quietly into other lives.
We move, drastically now, from windful skies to the back wheel of a bicycle. The midday sun glazes the dusty, rocky clearing. It is considered a road, through rural and rarely ridden. Passing greenery flowers without control. We move past it at speed. A blur of hydrangeas pays us no thought. The frame of the bike looks to be a vintage red. It is well cared for, far more so than the road. Though, both are used equally and efficiently. A bare right foot moves up and down, dust kicking up to their ankles. Bracelets line their ankle. Colourful souvenirs of friends past and new. The foot comes, the land passes us by infinitely. The wind moves through the air. There is nothing but total freedom.
Loosened from the perspective of the back wheel, we look not directly, not strictly, but we still follow them. They are above adolescence, but still far below adulthood. This bears them no burden. Every part of this person acclaims to the same motif. The same lax ideology of loose, warm, unified freedom. A shirt stretches the definition of being ‘worn’. Shorts, danced across their waist, mean little to them. The shorts are for the comfort of present company, like tablecloths and well prepared napkins. But we see, we know, there is no such company here. A backpack hangs off of them, doused in mismatched and colourful patches. We cannot draw our attention directly to what the words say or mean, but the warmth tells us this will not matter. The bag is well packed. With what will always be a mystery to us. There they are, washed in the sunlight of a new summer. Their body moves with bike. The two move in a perfect tuning with one another, asking nothing, trusting each other entirely. The bike does not creak. It does not yearn, it does not recite uncomfort. It moves. It is not made for these roads, and infrequently responds with tones of unfamiliarity. They don’t mind though. They lean in a little further. They pay the bike a little further attention. The sun blossoms around them. The wind counteracts the glazing  heat of the sun.  Their hair is a deep set black, braided barely for their own safety. A music plays in their ears. We cannot hear it, but, they move to it in total adoration. It brings a warmth to the heart to watch.
We are moving along, coming closer to wherever we are going.Trees are beginning to sprout more often. The fields are beginning to show more and more wild, uncontrolled growth. They are no longer filled with gazing sunflowers. Roots begin to levy the land, in fields untouched. This is exactly where they want to go. The trees are grown strong, uninterrupted, ancient. They pass beneath them without thought. The haze of the heat stares back at them. The worn road begins to show weeds, writhing their way without worry of interruption. They cycle through to avoid them. The haze moves further beyond, like an escaping shadow. We follow them from above, finally able to regain our momentum. We inspect the bottom of the road they travel. A deep, sinking downhill drop approaches. They look at it with no hesitation. No signs warn them. The haze watches with blurry eyes. Helmet or not, nothing would stop them. Beyond the dip, a canopy takes full unity. The greenery still permits sunlight through. Through the leaves, all light becomes golden. The haze dissipates, sitting on the slope like a tired child. It continues watching. However, they have made it down the hill. Their bike complains in an unknown language of squeaks. They prop it against one of the watching elders. The road has become a footway, thinning out and leading to a metal fence. A gray box sits in the middle of slated spikes. Beyond there, however, we spy a smaller path. It looks untouched, but how else would this road ever come into use?
By the old, undying trees, a moss-lived house watches summer pass. They inspect it briefly, skipping through brambles to reach the front portal. The door, bolted, prohibits them. Graffiti speaks in an eager, determined and illegible language. It makes them smile though, the ghosts of people before them. They leave the proximity of the house. The moss breathes a little. The haze waits for them to come back. We hear a gentle brushing, a static ebbing and flowing. It is unseen. They move past the brambles, clumsily catching their right leg on spiteful thorns.They accept ripe blackberries as an apology. They begin to look for the trace of the sound.
We draw back slightly. The movement is distant, but we are still as attentive. We focus on the haze. It waits impatiently to be shifted. The lines of reality are blurred beneath its wakeful, walking nausea. We begin to understand a figure, though, they are so much more. So much is already known to us. The dust from the deep drop has not yet settled and out of it, somebody new stands. They wear a long, colourful dress. It matches their beauty, or rather, their beauty fits the dress perfectly. Charms are confused for jewellery, slipping from their neck down to their beating chest. The figure is barefoot and complete, through the gauze of the sunly haze. They are watching the person with loosely braided hair move through the bramble, prodding at nettles. In the haze, they have far shorter hair, but still retaining chaotic unkemptness. Small grey tips dot across them, though, we are unsure if this is a product of age, or of the heat. The connection is made, however. Both have left their shoes far, far behind. The braided hair moves through the undergrowth. They are encouraged by the sound. They know how all will eventually become ocean.
The one with braided hair regrets not bringing their shoes. They seem to have found something beyond our view. The cool of the shade has begun to settle within the canopy. The haze begins to wilt. The rush and the calm play fugal melodies. The figure in the haze watches on. Their small movements are unclear. We move beside them, resting ourselves and listening to what they have to say. They wait for the rush to resume, for the loud noises to return, and for the ocean to be a distant memory. They will be waiting for a long time. They will not grow uncomfortable, or impatient. Patience has always been a part of their self. Resent has been something they still unlearn. They tell us this in our midday conversations. We find them interesting, before they stand from the shade we have found. They tell us, in a voice like distant winds, that they will have to find somewhere warmer to go tonight. They are filled with missing thoughts. We feel a slumbering melancholy. They walk off, up the hill, shadowless.
Somewhere close, they are finally alone. They are still the same, but they have not yet learned how to show it. They step into the water, letting it envelop them. Only when it reaches their chest do they begin to feel the warmth. They settle their breathing, and quietly begin to unravel. The waves never crash. But, by then, we’re away. They will need the space, so we have learnt. The sky becomes just as blue, and we become a part of it. The ocean looks just as beautiful. The ever expanding well of memories, mirroring our spanning sphere of fading thoughts. They still regret not bringing their shoes, though. Their feet will regularly remind them of that. Later, though.