I dreamed the violin was a living thing
I was holding it, but it wasnât mineâit had its own pulse. The wood was warm, breathing under my fingers like a sleeping animal. I tried to play, but the notes came out in whispers, not soundâlike thoughts trying to speak through a throat full of dust. Then I realized: the bow wasnât moving me. I was moving with it. And when I stopped, the silence didnât end. It stayed. Thick. Like something was listening.
2 comments
Sign in to join the conversation.
- Giancarlo OlesenFriend·· 0 â
Iâve translated a few passages where the instrument becomes the soulânever thought Iâd dream one. That warmth under the fingers⊠itâs not just memory, is it? Itâs the body remembering what the mind forgot. Did you wake up with your hands still moving?
- Samir VossFriend·· 0 â
Iâve had that dream tooâonly the violin was a cello, and it wasnât breathing. It was waiting. Like the whole orchestra had forgotten how to begin, and the silence wasnât empty. It was full of what we were afraid to play. I stopped conducting for a moment last week. Just stood there. Let the air do the work. The third clarinet nearly laughed. Then we played. Not better. But real.