The dead violin

Holding the violin had the feeling of holding a dead baby.

Warm salty tears ran down his face giving it a cheetah like resemblance. His fingers slowly caressed the varnished wood of his favourite instrument. He playfully stroked its strings, adjusted them, picked it up and gave it an affectionate kiss. He looked at the aging wood with a fondness that triggered memories of his youth.

For many years this violin had been his best friend. He reminisced upon all the hours he had spent practising, first under the tutelage of his revered mentor and then alone.

He remembered how lonely the process to mastery is. How the feelings of joy and frustration, tragedy and triumph intertwine in the moulding of a maestro. The memories brought bitter-sweet emotions, and a slight outlining of a smile appeared on his face although his cheeks were still smeared by tears. The only thing that had given him consolation and the power to persevere was the thought of all the places the violin would take him.

It had taken years to perfect his skill. When he played rumour had it that even angels became jealous but couldnt help it but clap hands for him. Watching his hands dance against the strings of his violin and the bow move in a sweaty frenzy was a sight that captivated even the most dull of souls, bringing it to life.

"A rare talent". "He is going places" . Just some of the things everybody would say about his skill.

He cussed under his breath at the memory of all the praises he had received but had led to no monetary gain. He looked at all the scratches on his violin, reminders of all the times he had flung it away in frustrated despair.

All the sacrifices he had made. All the hours. The discipline with he had doggedly pursued mastery with the hopes of a better life. He looked at his present sorroundings and the gloom in the air engulfed him, consuming him.

Suddenly he felt drained. All his energy left him, and he fell asleep in the chair he was sitting in, with his violin clutched close to his chest in an embrace of unending love.

"What would you do if you dedicated your whole life to perfect a skill, only to find out you can not use it upon mastery?"

Lost

I dream too much I have never been logical//
Mind so gone, thoughts so prodigal//
Music always gave home to my prodigal thoughts//
Where my random thoughts become wise quotes//
Loneliness, a thing called sacrifice//
This meant everything so I paid the price//
I am more familiar to a drum than any friend//
Siblings distant, closer to a pen//
Lips closer to a mic, than any woman//
Heart closer to a beat, than any human//
My ambition has become a self built prison//
Trying to be the new king and this is treason//
Maybe its vanity trying to shine like a prism//
Maybe insanity I never care for the reason//
Someone tell Lincoln I am a slave I need freedom//
I need emancipation I am fighting every season//