The music the soul plays

Something I wrote this morning...


A dainty finger lightly traced over the wandering path the ant took in the dusty earth. The zigzagging back and forth seemingly had no method to its madness. Her eyes focused solely on the trek her finger was taking, all else blurred around it. Nails cut short, her hands were serviceable. Her long, slender fingers had a peculiar set of calluses.

Her hands were not a clue as to what she looked like. They did not match her. She was on the short side, and not much about her could be considered long and slender, except perhaps her hands and feet. Most women at 5’3 did not wear size nine shoes. But if the price to have long fingers was having long toes as well, she’d pay it. For her fingers brought her livelihood. They brought her joy.

Fighting the urge to pick up the ant carrying away a piece of her lunch, and place him near his hill a mere few feet away, she continued to trace. She was much too direct a person anyway, much too focused. She always knew exactly where she was going, and took the most direct route—not necessarily the path of least resistance, but short all the same. The meandering path the ant took fascinated her. What would it be like to enjoy all the twist and turns of such a path? It was always much more fun to drive on a curvy road and roller coasters certainly didn’t have straight, flat tracks. When one had no destination in mind, the more exciting path became important. There is no thrill without risk and her life had no risks. Thus, no thrill.

She was becoming bored with life. Which was understandable really, considering she spent four years of her life perfecting one single piece of music. She had mastered it, as none other had, but now what? Now, she had a decision to make. She could either find a new goal and map out the familiar direct path, or… or what? Just amble along? Part of her longed to do so, longed to be free—carefree. Perhaps that wasn’t her lot in life, however. She may need structure, need a set course.

Forgetting the ant and his ambling, the woman walked through her open patio door into a larger room, an almost empty room. She was drawn here and again and again relentlessly. Sitting in front of a baby Grand, her fingers were poised and ready. The music ran through her blood, making he heart feel heavy. She was not sad. She was simply full. The passion required to play her song hadn’t eluded her, if anything it was stronger. Her heart hung in her chest, full to the brim. Life and passion consumed her to the point where conscious thought was not possible, and there was only one way to relieve it. This state was required to play this piece, the greatest a pianist can ever hope to achieve. But there is a reason why this piece is the last any pianist plays. Not only is it the crowning achievement, but nothing can compare after it. The work one’s soul must do to play the song was great indeed. The musician was never the same afterward. She was starting to understand that. This song, her song, filled her with the life she had left behind in search of her dream. This song gave her back her lost years. This song made her want to live, to let everything go out of control and live life with the zest the song demanded of her.

Dare she?


The song mentioned above is fictious as far as I know. The song played here is not meant to replace that song, I simply thought it went with my writing exercise today.