The Echoes of the Echelons

[Initiate 1,306]

Spoiler

The following is a bunch of useless ramblings that may become your life philosophy but probably definitely shouldn't.

 

Did you know that sound waves never cease to exist? Let’s rewind a bit before I say why. Sounds are waves; vibrations travelling through the air. As those vibrations travel through the atmosphere and into your eardrum, they affect objects in small ways. When a sound is loud enough, for instance, it can break glass. Infinitely more sensitive than glass is your eardrum, and sounds that can break glass can damage your ears. So what exactly happens to those waves? As stated, nothing. They just keep rolling, and rolling, and rolling… getting infinitely smaller, never reaching a state of nonexistence. However, it is impossible for us to detect these sound waves. They are so small that they are lost to us forever - almost. 

Take a good listen. Drink in whatever you hear. What is contacting your eardrums right now?

At this very instant - what could it be? Perhaps it’s the voice of Adolf Hitler, booming the promise of freedom for the Germans, and the groan of the Jews under his iron rod.

Perhaps it is the sublime thundering of the guns of Napoleon Bonaparte, with which he ruled the empires of Europe for his golden age. Maybe it’s the piteous cries for help that rose from the living grave of Ohain. It may be the clash of bronzen shields and spears as the Spartans repelled the attacks of men ready to destroy themselves for the beauty of one great lady.  

It could possibly be the words, whispered in the moonlight, that once meant so much and now are used so flippantly: “I love you,” the tenderest sound that could escape the lips of the one whom you would die for.

Perhaps ‘tis the greatest words ever spoken by a man: It is finished! as Lucifer’s foil breathed for the last time in a quarter-fortnight. Perhaps it is the humble confession and the broken conversion of one who is desperate for light.

It may be the hero of Waterloo, dying with the word Merde! on his fractured lips, or the villain of Watergate, sentenced to prison for deeds done and prospected.

Maybe it is even the last heart-rending chill-inducing monologue of the King of England at Agincourt, and the twang of bowstrings gathering pace as the dusky horses of the Francophones became crimson in their ultimate distress.

The sound of trumpets, sounding the advance, and the dying throes of those sentenced to the sword. 

It could be the cries of the men and women sent to the devouring monster, the guillotine, for nothing but the “de” in their name. Perhaps it is the thundering explosion of Apollo 1 severing short the lives of four brave men who devoted themselves to their generation’s greatest mission, or the thundering applause of the crowds as Yuri Gagarin made history and contention in one moment.

Or maybe it’s the sweet, falling melodies of Für Elise, trembling in the moonlight. Perhaps it’s the cacophony of emotion in Ode to Joy, and Beethoven’s delightfully unrealistic wish for a utopia on a broken earth.

It could be wind in the trees or on the mountain-side, or the whispering of a generation gone with it. It could be the thundering words of Martin Luther King Jr. as he proclaimed that he had a dream, and the echoes of his dream in every heart. It could be the crack of the pistol that ended his life and gave birth to his movement. Perhaps it’s the yelling, shouting, rioting, looting, police-assaulting crowds of overgrown toddlers who even now defile his dream by claiming that to make equal is to make unequal. It could be the “reverse-racism” of the Chicago Sun-Times as they capitalize the black skin colour but not the white in their articles. 

It could even be the crashing of oceans on the shores and ships of the Vikings, off to make war with their neighbours. It could be the screams of the Romanovs in that cellar in Yekaterinburg, or the rumours that one had survived.

It could be the fevered celebration of the winner, and the despondency of the loser. It could be the heroic assault on the pillbox and the click of a grenade pin coming out. It may be the roar of the guns opening fire on the men running towards them, and the men littering the ground with blood. It could be the twinkle of water on a thirsty rose, or the twinkle of knowledge on a thirsty mind. 

It could be the joy of the one who’s love is requited, and the tears of the one who has gained no return splashing in the river before the final jump, the final struggle. It could be McWatt singing out “Oh well!” and flying into his mountain. 

Whatever it is, you might not hear it. But it’s there. History lives on in the lives of our sound waves. One day, your voice will be heard among them; among the echoes of the echelons.
 

Edited June 26, 2020 by Initiate

[LOLKILLERTOTHEDEATH 1,921]

Approved!

A brilliantly well-written piece! The feeling that you both don't matter in the grand scheme of things while a part of you never truly ceasing to exist is certainly comforting to me. The plethora of historical instances of importance also add a sense of importance to the piece as a whole.

[Tokamak 1,021]

Nice starting point (even if this is not possible), and beautifully written.