Music

Depression. A dark void without emotion. A heart with scars from a million years. An unsealed wound spewing blood slowly draining every emotion and passion - except for one thing. Music.

I set my violin down as reality bursts the invisible barrier between music and the world. I look at the clock, the hands reading 11:40. I was 10 minutes late to my next class... The depth of my immersion within the notes flying off of my violin shattered the fabric of reality only to set my mind in a place unknown to many. A place in which only the passionate can go, a place in which only the beloved can go, a place in which musicians travel to make life; to make music.

After a long day of school, I come home to find the music staring at me... The music in which I will perform in competition. Sicilliano & Rigaudon for violin by F. Kreisler. I feel the beat in my body and hear the notes in my head as rest. My fingers start to dance to the rhythm of Rigaudon. Confident, small, and quick motions lightly brush across my sheets as the notes and rhythms soar by me. I pick up my violin and start to practice; slowly immersing myself into the world of music. With careful ears, each note rings through the instrument into the dead silent room, filled only with my calm breath and the sound of a violin.

The resonance of the instrument echos beautifully in the room. With every rest comes a cold silence only to be broken by the sound of music - beautiful music. I flip the page to begin the piece as if I were performing. My bow on the string, left hand in position, I move. And no sound comes out. Emptiness... What is this?

As the pale white horse hair pulls against the strings, white dust flies through the air falling slowly towards the ground. I move to the beginning of the piece and try again, still, no sound. I set my violin down and look at my music. I notice a black smudge on my music and after desperate attempts to clean it, the staff turns blank. White spaces and black lines scored across the page without a note in place. Each black smudge runs down the page similar to that of mascara and tears.

I turn to my other music. Blank. My perception of time slowly fades as I look across a gallery of endless gallery of blank staves I once concieved as music.

I lay in bed, a tear trickles along my cheek as I slowly slip into a deep sleep...

Why can't anything go right?