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Melody

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Sephirah:
For a very good friend of mine. She knows who she is. :)

Melody
In the half light of evening she plays. It's all she believes she has left. Echoes of a life, given form. Cries of a soul in turmoil, transformed into melody. A melancholic symphony is all that gives her peace. Notes of sorrow, notes of anger, notes of regret, coaxed from the old guitar by fingers too tired of hanging on.

For no one but herself, her song. Eyes closed, mind far away. In a different place. A place of memory. And even though the tears form, the strings are a blur as she draws forth everything in her heart. Like a whisper on the wind she drifts, caught up in her refrain. Lost in the peace which comes from releasing her mind to the composition.

Finally a sigh. Soft. Knowing. As the guitar rests by her chair and she comes back to a world she doesn't want. A world of heartless strangers with judgemental stares. A world of struggle. A world where she doesn't feel she belongs. A life that isn't a life. A life she feels is a life sentence instead.

She yearns. For that one constant running through the world like a river. That one thing which seems ever to be beyond her grasp. To be. To be allowed to be. That illusive light she follows through the darkness yet can never seem to find. Through every step she takes she feels pushed back by the world. To the point she no longer cares. It's no longer worth the fight. She feels the dream is only a dream.

She wants the dream. She wants to sleep.

But something stops her. Something makes her hold on. Something she can't explain. Something she feels when she picks up the guitar by her side and begins to play. Oblivious to the world. Enveloped by the sound of her heart. The final cadences of her consciousness.

Then she knows the feeling of being alive.

Day after day she plays. Through turning seasons, changing reasons, her song remains. She remains. She lives to play. Lives to be lost in the notes. Hidden away from the hate, the fear, the toil of being herself. And day after day she doesn't notice the shadows outside her window. Or doesn't want to notice. Doesn't care.

Until that day.

The day she couldn't play. The day they took it from her. The day she felt the world decided. And on that day she made up her mind. She made plans. Prepared. Intended. It would be quiet, as they had made her life. Silent. No one would know. No one would care. It would be over. She could dream. Finally dream.

She just had to not be scared.

For three days she tried. Tried to make her peace. But something stopped her. Some intangible desire she didn't know she had. Lost in thought she didn't hear the knock at her door. Didn't answer. Didn't care. But she heard the sound of paper sliding beneath her door. Heard the faint sound of footsteps walking away. Of muted voices.

More hatred no doubt. The thought made up her mind.

The childlike face on the slip of paper on her doormat gave her pause. It smiled. And in spite of herself she scooped it up and began to read:

You don't know me. We were worried when you stopped playing, and then we heard what happened. How you lost your guitar. I hope this isn't creepy but we would stand outside on the path and listen every night. Me and a few of my friends. It was always so beautiful.

Please don't take this the wrong way but we decided to get something for you to let you carry on playing, because... well... because...

She didn't finish. With trembling fingers she opened the door. In the stifling heat of a late summer evening, on her doorstep she saw a black guitar case. Silver clasps at either end. And she broke down. Smiling through the tears. For the first time in a long time. And blinking hard she forced herself to read the last lines of the note:

...Because no matter what the world does to you, the music comes from inside you. Without the musician there is no music. But more importantly than that, without the music there is no musician. And your music is beautiful. Whatever happens. We would like to hear you keep playing. To listen to that beautiful melody.

Sincerely.

A friend.

So she played. She played where she stood. Tears streaming. Yet for the first time in a long time she welcomed them. Her music drifted in the late night air. A song of sorrow, and reflection, but for the first time... hope.

MaryT:
That is so beautiful.

Jessica:
@Sephirah

Sephira, this is so beautiful.  I could feel her emotions, as if they were my own.  Her struggles, her joys, her fear, her love. This is a strong analogy for many of us.
Thank you! 

Hugs and smiles, Jess

Northern Star Girl:
@Sephirah
I am echoing @Jessica's reply comment.... 

Very beautifully written and full of good thoughts and analogies that are quite applicable for many of us here on the Forums.

Thank you for posting this, very helpful and encouraging for sure.
Hugs,
Danielle

Sonja:
@Sephirah

Very Beautiful! 

Are you a writer? (I mean in a professional sense)  You have a way of writing that is very soft, thoughtful and genuine.

Sonja.

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