Life as a violin composition
It's pluck reverberates through time and echoes in our present senses, washing over us like invisible toxins yet cruel and forgiving when need be. To think that years upon years upon years have brought me to this moment, it is fantastical. Whose red violin do I play? Whose blood courses through my veins? Years upon years upon years I've played my own violin. It is with this unfettered music do I feel my bones shiver with contentment. The music, the sound, the millenial thrill of quivering to my own composition. Like a long shot through time, a communal ripple of what was then and what could be. Beauty courses through my veins. Beauty of thousands of lives lived but never forgotten. For each life imprints a musical note in that composition. Urgency, hesitation, staccato, crescendo, pianissimo. Such grand audition!
The beat thump-a-thumps as hopes and dreams and destiny and swept aside for one ethereal squalor. One ecstatic pluck of a chord of many. A rise, fall, with eyes open for the next note. The sadness, the glory, the lust, the anger. History is written. Life is forever.
The beat thump-a-thumps as hopes and dreams and destiny and swept aside for one ethereal squalor. One ecstatic pluck of a chord of many. A rise, fall, with eyes open for the next note. The sadness, the glory, the lust, the anger. History is written. Life is forever.