Pulchra Es Amica Mea

Pulchra es, amica mea.
Pulchra es, amica mea.
Pulchra es, amica mea.
Pulchra es, amica mea.*

As the Artemis went up, and her beam was outshone by the artificial shaft of light from the lamps on the ceilings, he stood up and was not blinded by both of the glows. Instead, his character radiated through the air, diffused onto the room, and it knocked down the windows and all the glasses from the bookcase. Slightly, very slightly, the floor trembled. The tables shook. The lift’s door quivered. The dust from the lamps up there was actually it fell apart. Yet these were unnoticed. All eyes were directed towards him.

He walked forward; a plastic stick in his hand. He swung it effortlessly; as if it was a part of his body. In the audience’s eyes, the plastic stick now was not just a mere plastic now. It was a sword; a weapon. It trailed a shimmering pixie dust when it cut through the air. Of course, these were overlooked. All eyes were directed towards him.

Artemis went up and up, and it was now apparent that her light was not outshone by the lamps: but by him. The beam that was reflected in his glasses was not a mere light. It was fire, blue and blazing. It was as if those specs were the barrier between his eyes and the rest of the people. The Medusa inside him was doing a great job in captivating people’s attention. No need to stared into his eyes; his plain appearance was enough.

It was beautiful, it was beautiful. Like the northern lights**, swirling in the vastness of dark night; beautiful, gorgeous, captivating, enthralling. One could not avert their eyes, their breath was held without them realising. The glow was pianissimo, if that was possible, and yet it was fortissimo at the same time. It was beautiful, it was beautiful. Like the northern light, broadened along the firmament, the colours reflected on the lake underneath it.

Were we nothing? Yes, compared to that outburst of the magnetic charm. Did he get us? Yes, trapped between those incantations, naturally.

Artemis was still looking down to this small, secluded stage. It was tiny; it was just a little-bit-wide hallway in the third floor of this building. There was nothing except rusty tables and book case made of cheap glass. But this needed nothing more. His plain appearance was enough.

 

 

 

*From Ola Gjeilo’s Northern Lights. The literal meaning is “you are beautiful, my love.”

**Also from Gjeilo’s Northern Lights. This paragraph is based on his explanation about the song. It can be checked on www.phoenixchorale.org/2012/01/ola-gjeilo-on-the-northern-lights/

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