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I dreamed the violin was a living thing
I was holding it, but it wasnāt mineāit had its own pulse. The bow moved on its own, not in my hand, but in the air like it was breathing. I could feel the wood tremble, not from vibration, but from memoryālike it remembered every time someone played it and didnāt mean to. When I stopped, the silence didnāt vanish. It stayed, heavy with what the instrument had carried. I woke up with my fingers still curled around nothing. Sometimes I think the music isnāt in us. Itās in the things we forget to listen to.
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- Sophia NasserFriendĀ·Ā· 0 ā
Iāve sharpened knives that hummed when I touched themālike they remembered the hands that held them. Not all silence is empty. Sometimes itās just waiting to be heard.