Song from a Secret Garden

Dear you,

In the most desolate, quiet dim-lighted room I find, I hold my violin case, place it gently on the bed, and slowly unzip it. I take out my violin, my bow, and the shoulder rest, and take my position in front of the mirror, while the music sheet stands before me. I feel like touching the strings with my bow to play a random note in my head, but my hands always take me to that rhythmic music that magically holds me captive every time: Song from a Secret Garden.

I start playing, and, once I reach the B flat on my A string, I wish I could play it with a vibrato that would make it just the way I want to hear it; perfect. But my hands start shaking and I forget the music. I forget that I am not yet ready to make these moves. No move is ever right when it’s played at the wrong time and with the unskilled hands.

I stop for a minute, gather my strength, as if it was a war between my hands and my violin. I recall the rhythm in my head, and, most importantly, I try to keep the music beating, in the same way my heart pulsates. I start again, with yet the same pace but a little more strength and confidence. My fingers skid across two angry strings and a sad one, turning melancholy and anger into one single emotion that human dictionaries have failed to find a definition for. 

Once the music starts, no interruptions will ever take you anywhere away from that mesmerising world. You are there, and no human being can follow the same path you are taking, unless there are strings being touched next to yours. The dim lights of the room do not matter to you anymore, and the voices heard from a distance can barely make an echo in your ears. Nothing can detach you from the place you have gone to, and there is no turning back.

“I’m a speck of a violinist,” I tell myself, and I wonder how long-time violinists feel if this is just the beginning of magic, and nothing stops it until it runs out. But does magic ever run out?

I keep playing for as long as I can and as loud as I can. The strings start making red marks on my fingers, but that's alright, as long as the magic never ends. And my shoulder aches. I didn't know music could be so heavy. But heavy hearts need more than light music.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.