Written on July 23, 2015.
It hangs from the wall, its varnished maroon color reflecting the dim mood lighting strung up about the room. I can almost hear it calling to me. I'm having a hard time resisting the urge to take it into my hands. I finally do, turning it to rest between by jaw and shoulder, its neck resting comfortably, perfectly between my thumb and forefinger. It's as though it was crafted just to fit the line of my hand and my face. The bow as well slips into my right hand with ease, my fingers immediately finding the proper position and bringing it down upon the strings. I don't notice my eyes slip close. I'm in almost a trancelike state- everything feels like a dream. I'm surrounded just by swaying music, like being carried out to sea on calm, steady waves.
A storm approaches. The waves turn choppy and suddenly I'm drowning- where do my fingers go? I'm no longer supporting the instrument with my jaw but now with my hand. I know it's not right. It doesn't feel right, nothing feels right. I'm repulsed by the audacity I have to contaminate this symbol of peace and beauty with my abhorrent attempt to bring its sounds to its full potential. Now when I drag the bow across the strings, it makes nothing but a horrid screech that scrunches up my face and makes me wish I could close up my ears like a seal. Tears flow steadily down my cheeks- why can't I do this anymore? I can't stand this for another second. Everything is in slow motion, and everything is blurry, and all I can feel is the red-hot line of contact wherever I'm still holding the violin. I throw it on the ground and it shatters. There is no shrapnel, no broken pieces that once made sound, there is only a splash and suddenly I'm floating. Floating in… saltwater. Tears. My own tears, or perhaps those of all the poor souls subjected to my butchering of pieces that once held meaning but are now just a reminder of my own inadequacy.
A storm approaches. The waves turn choppy and suddenly I'm drowning- where do my fingers go? I'm no longer supporting the instrument with my jaw but now with my hand. I know it's not right. It doesn't feel right, nothing feels right. I'm repulsed by the audacity I have to contaminate this symbol of peace and beauty with my abhorrent attempt to bring its sounds to its full potential. Now when I drag the bow across the strings, it makes nothing but a horrid screech that scrunches up my face and makes me wish I could close up my ears like a seal. Tears flow steadily down my cheeks- why can't I do this anymore? I can't stand this for another second. Everything is in slow motion, and everything is blurry, and all I can feel is the red-hot line of contact wherever I'm still holding the violin. I throw it on the ground and it shatters. There is no shrapnel, no broken pieces that once made sound, there is only a splash and suddenly I'm floating. Floating in… saltwater. Tears. My own tears, or perhaps those of all the poor souls subjected to my butchering of pieces that once held meaning but are now just a reminder of my own inadequacy.