The violin was not like the guitar. His fingers did not slide easily over the strings, like Wendy’s seemed to do. The bow was not something he totally understood how to use. The sounds he made were not close to beautiful; they weren’t even ugly in a beautiful way. He focused hard the first day, and the second, and the third day that he owned the violin, and secretly despaired that he’d never be able to learn. He pushed himself, further, further, hoping to quiet out the noises in his head like he did when Wendy played guitar.
And then, on the fourth day, when he was tired from practicing and playing, he just gave up and slid the bow across the strings mindlessly, not even caring that he couldn’t play music but just hoping for some sort of inspiration as the music (or what was allegedly supposed to be music) played out around him. He just didn’t care. He’d never master the violin.
And that’s when he realized that everything was quiet. Not in the room, of course, the piercing and screeching noises still filled the air; but in his head. As soon as he became aware of it, and concentrated on it, the buzzing came back, and so when he stopped, stopped focusing, but drifted, he realized that his mind was clear, that he didn’t hear anything except for the sounds that were supposed to constitute music.
Eventually he set down the violin, but slowly. He closed his eyes, and focused on the feeling, of not focusing on the one thing he wanted to focus on most, and for a few moments he was in complete silence. And then he opened his eyes and the sound of voices returned.
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