String on string, wire on wire, and within unguided hands, it shrieks. Learned and devout, as shown by callouses, it then speaks.

Tugging literally on heart strings, it gives one the desire to get up and dance, even if there be no room. To fall in love with it is not to feel, but to sense it at work. Gently tugging and pulling or pushing, harsh or gentle, as long as it's clear and there and suddenly it's everywhere, flooding your ears and your heart and your mind and you suddenly can't control yourself anymore. Smooth and fluid pulls at points on your body: softly pulling you along to the sound and the seemingly punctuated beat, but it's only punctuated to you, made especially for your mind and the expression of it.

Lavishly you can move, or maybe dramatically, simply being. It's the best feeling in the world, to not have to be in control, to let the music guide you. You want everyone to feel it and if they can't then you don't stop to feel sorry: You show them what you feel and hopefully they'll take in your meaning, soak it up along with the music surrounding you.

The instrument has a sort of gruffness to it, but at the same time, it is smooth, unbridled and unrivaled in its beauty. Like a ballet dancer and the older man she walked in with. The man's graying, silver and white hairs meld onto his head, and all the tension in his brow, located above also equally melded hairs, has disappeared as he watches his wonder of a woman do what she has come for, do what she was meant for.

And all the while, the young lass dancing upon the brightly lit stage can feel him, knows he's there, is reassured by his presence. She can't give a care in the world because he owns it all: He is everything she's ever cared about, and that's all that matters to the two of them.

Her hair is wound tightly in a bun and feathers encircle her head, and they do the same at her waist, where the soft, nearly see-through fabric rests, but only for a moment before floating outward like the clouds at their villa in the mountains. He's wearing a dashing stark-black suit and she knows that even though he looks fantastic now, he'll look even better in less than that later.

She's young and soft and delicate, and he's old and worn, but not so that he's lost his vigor nor his shape; He simply looks aged, as if he had returned from the military or something of the like. He's had a hard life and with the meeting of his beloved, it's all come to glory.

And all the while, you're sitting here and simply watching- no, feeling the two. And god, does it feel like bliss. It's an epiphany, it's perfection; the two moving together in thought and sound and it's just indescribable until you get up and start moving to it. Your heart and your soul are willing you to move and you do, effortlessly. It matters not to you what others think as you glide fluidly in your own mind; instead of heeding their snickers and barely concealed smirks, you instead dance away, far, far away, wherever the music and the breeze decide to take you. You wait for no one although the world stops for you; nothing can bring you down besides the monotony of reality.

You are a feather, you are breathless. You are weightless, mindless, you are simply a moving mass that has decided to grace the world with your presence, and you return the favor to the world by giving it all you've got.

Energetic and excited or calm and unperturbed, you move on, your being the only one in existence.

.

.

.

And as the song comes to an end, you gasp softly, eyes fluttering open. Pupils are blown wide and surrounded by vibrant color, stark and clear and defined. You watch as the entire room stands and cheers, before sliding your headphones off, and you're back to the world again.

Sitting in your day-to-day hideout, your room, or dorm, or flat, in front of your computer or listening to your music device. And as you come down from your high, from that floating sensation and that breathless, wordless, inexpressible emotion, you wonder where the hell you'd be now if it weren't for the violin.