Sound of Music


There is an echo in the wake of a silent mind; there is a soft thud of the heart that gives beat to the slow breathing of a human being, which hereby, creates a rhythm.
Without wanting to, without knowing so, we create music.
For some, it is something sacred, for some, it is feelings that are wrapped in a melody.  When words aren’t sufficient, it’s the only way to let yourself out. The only way to let yourself go, to go in the depth of something more than ordinary, and swim in the masses of an implausible being.
It is the depth to one’s soul, it helps you hold on to time, save a moment in a song, in the slow strumming of a guitar, or the critical moments of the violin, the high notes of a piano, it is your savior, or a way to open your eyes to feelings crushed deep inside you.
Suspension, silence, is all you need.
It is said,
“There’s music in the sighing of a reed;
There’s music in the gushing of a rill;
There’s music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.”
Lord Byron
If you look closely enough, you will find that even kings weep to the sounds of music; it can get the higher to the ground, and make the beggars rise above the kings, with the right note, with the correct symphony.
It becomes your recognition, for you are not bigger, nor lesser, but you just let yourself be what you are in that moment.
When you feel a tune, you don’t say it, you don’t find the words to express it, you just feel it in your veins, flowing through your body like blood, giving you the rush, or giving you the peace.
Inspiring you, or giving way to passion. It is indescribable for it is a feeling that can either be your lullaby or your blaze.
It can either make you swing your hair, when you’re lost in the moment, with your lips parted for the slow intake of air, your hands carelessly loose around you, soaring with your body, while your feet are just above the ground.
In that moment, you’re in an alternate universe, captivated by the music, unable to recognize your own strength, for everything becomes a weakness bowing down to the sounds that only remain, to make you believe that insanity surely exists.
It exists in every one of us, it isn’t ecstasy, no, it isn’t a substance. It has no price, it cannot be sold. It is who you are, and to each, the sound of music is different, to each one of us, insanity comes differently; it is deep, for it touches your being. But only, when it touches your inner self, you find the solace, or you find the madness, for you finally find yourself.

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