A deep scar has finally healed; you start wearing short sleeves again, applying balm to eradicate the pigment of the mark that remains. The day before your birthday, you pick out a flared-and-frilly-feminine dress that drapes perfectly on your shoulders. Just before you can smile, a monarch butterfly flutters toward you–that same orange that passed you by when you met “the one.” It rests upon your arm, a symbol of transformation that once made you sing. Seeing you enraptured, your friend looks into your empty eyes and asks, “What is the matter?”
We remember the dates–anniversaries that toast to the days our hearts truly began beating loud enough that we could actually hear them–the dates we create songs. Why do relationships seem orchestrated? The lyrics somehow already put in place, the harmony and the melody designated. Yet for some strange reason, no matter what we do, no matter how we choose to play the music, the chord breaks. From that moment on, you are left with a string broken, forever. Perhaps you were attached and they were not.
The beauty of relationships is not in the discovery of why things did not crescendo and become a well-known symphony. Rather, the beauty is how certain notes are played, and why in the moments of rest or desired break, there is still a loud noise; a discord. Sometimes so painfully screechy, it forces you to put everything on mute for a while, and just listen to the silence. Maybe if the silence prolongs, you will begin to hear the solfeggio that is you. Some songs you can’t get out of your head, because they are meant to be sung.
In this virtual choir that we all partake in, loving-romantic relationships are instrumental in teaching us how our own instruments should be heard. We learn how to dance to the strings of our own hearts, how to flow within the deep-divinity of our souls, and how to make this art form vocal. We each have our own individual voice, and when it is no longer heard, we feel a sense of desolation. In these moments we start to fear, and instead of tuning into ourselves, we yearn for a different voice that matches the sound of our hearts. Our own selves become echoes as we take on that instrument, practicing endlessly to learn it. We want to master it and we give it our all. What if this new voice begins to tire and demean us, or becomes threatening to our own peace?
Remember, nature sings its own song: birds, crickets, bees, butterflies, they are not silent muses. They carry the sound of Oneness on their wings. Do you wish to fly?
See that you are the percussionist of your life. The matter is, you may not be hearing the music you once did or the songs you once felt connected to. You may not hear the calling of your loved one, knowing that they have decided to write their own song with no instrumentals. It is time for you to compile the notation of the sound of harmony within. It has arisen greatly so that you may hear it, and that you may make sweet hymns of it. The matter is, it is time for you to write the song of “you.” Sing it to, a capella, in bold, and with all the “Love you” once played for another. This time, you need not be heard, but felt with resonance. Your world will always remain a silent audience in awe of the inspiration you carry. You, you beautiful melody, be the person to ask yourself, “hey, sing to me.”
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