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Audrey Sakhnovsky

Approx. 620 words

The most powerful eloquence is unspoken.

Classical music is an elixir, the eternal healer for all wounds, mental or emotional.
Rhythms create emotions unbound by words. The beats fill formerly empty eardrums
with feelings of passion, an unspoken poetry. The music breathes for me, functioning as a part of
me, intertwining with the reverberations of my heart. Classical music truly flows, picks me up
and never quite sets me down. It creates a separate world: a place to recollect and recover, to
reflect. The sweet melodies surround my calm, rested body and pick it up into the air. I am
weightless. Location holds no importance; the destination is the music. It enchants me and
changes my state of being, one with impenetrable walls and quiet reveries. Others cannot stand
the emptiness of the lyric-less noise, but they are afraid. They fear the plethora of pathos that
ignites within the soul, the chord change that causes me to recall a singular incident from years
prior, the sudden rush of sensation that impersonal lyrics cannot express, because nothing truly
speaks like classical music. Each sound links with an idea, a memory; it matches the sensations
of pain, elation, heartbreak, as it sings in the ear and syncs with the rhythm of the heart.
It is a necessary calm, a whole to the fragments. It forms novels of different stories with
the billowing force of a crescendo. It is not background, but a replacement for thought. The
vibrating orchestral strings of Swan Lake conceal the worries and stresses. A bassoon solo from
Frank Tichelis Angels in the Architecture flashes a memory of fright within me. I am not truly
alive, not truly experiencing, without the symphonies and the orchestras dancing through my
head, as even the solemn piano player performing Beethovens Moonlight Sonata cushions the
blow of ones harmful words that seem to never dissipate from my mind. Classical music offers
the sentiments no one could ever offer, relating its intensifying sounds with unique emotions. It
compels a person to be within their own mind, to understand themselves. My body would be

cavernous, empty from a void of the calm moderatos, the slow decrescendos that leave the mind
wandering, and the accents of notes that have gone missing. Words can move people to tears, but
they could never be as personal and innate as the waves of notes that allow one to flow with their
current. Music grows and music diminishes; it shapes lives and forms its own messages, lacking
words but portraying the heart and mind; it is raw emotion.
With every song, the guidance of the players hands can be felt; the struggle of the
muscles working with the bones, the connection each person has in their formation of sound
through their instrument. Orchestras convey an accumulation of body, an assortment of people
manipulating to create. I do not simply hear chords or notes, but I perceive the movement of the
arms and the changing of the keys. The instruments are an extension of man itself, an outlet that
makes a cry of anguish into an echoing thunder of sound that encompasses a room and resonates
within the flesh. The heart flutters with the vibrato of a solo and then falls apart as it dwindles
into silence. The end of a speech does not compare to the conductors ending of a long, sorrowful
fermata. When an orchestra has finished its piece, it leaves the bitterest feelings of loss, leaving
one with only a reflection. They remember the hands reaching out to grasp them, trying to bring
them in and console them with warmth. They had never realized how blunt and external words
feel. Musics expression is unparalleled, because the most powerful eloquence is unspoken.