The echo of strings resonate, illuminating the walls like a lonely spirit guarding the

hallways. They seem to vibrate infinitely in the midst of the few hundred pairs of
eyes glaring right at me. What do they judge? My appearance? My hair rests by my
left shoulder, shrouded by the violin. The shadow emitted hides my name tag.
Kaori Miyazono, It has been inscribed with a tint of glittering gold. My turquoiseblue dress hides my feet like an ocean hides the greenery lurking on the seafloor.
My eyes are closed, but Im facing the bow Ive grasped firmly in my right hand.
The music of the people is like a rare and lovely flower growing amidst
encroaching weeds, They were Dvoraks words.
The violin itself is an overflowing chalice. As I strike it, the sacrament pours a
waterfall of sound. Behind me, an astonishing flurry of white and black keys lead the
echo, transcending the pulchritudinous melody of the strings. I raise my bow as it
glides across the array of strings. The bow seems to reach the zenith as the violin
sings a harmony of notes. Crescendo, Decrescendo.
A warm, red dress would have been perfect. Why did I choose the navy blue? Jenny
the paragon of fashion- and my closest, if not only friend, had picked it out for me
out of the twenty billion dresses available at the whatsitsname retail outlet. Dont
you just LOVE this one? Her squealing and hyperactive gestures had reigned down
on me like a tsunami as she presented before my eyes yet another dress. Do you
want to try it on? Even before I could answer I had found myself out of the change
rooms, clad in a different shade of white. Or yellow. Or blue.
Perfect. Jenny whispered.
Was blue perfect?
My navy blue dress sways like the waves of the ocean and dances with every note
and leaps with every pluck. My body waltzes with the violin. The strings are my
voice. This music is my refuge. As I breathe, the violin breathes with me. The violin
cries and moans, but I caress it and its cry becomes a song.
Romance Opening 11, by Antonin Dvorak. This piece had moved the hearts of
many in Dvoraks time. Yet it was lost as eras of music dragged on. Dvorak had
everything. Education, fame, wealth; but he discerned the glory of music and
melody that had been disgraced by many. To me, this piece was like a bundle of
flowers, given earnestly at a ceremony.
Thousands pass such pieces, while others trample it under foot, and thus the
chances are that it will perish before it is seen by the one discriminating spirit who
will prize it above all else.
Why me?
The piano stops playing. But my breath is held, and the bow is raised. Crescendo,
Decrescendo.

Its cold. Is it the breeze? There is no breeze - Its a hall. It must be the dress Im
wearing. My shoulders have been left to dry, like the wet sand, met by the crash of
the blue waves, only to be deserted again. Just like this hall. Just like how people
come and go for this performance.
How long had it been; four, five years?
"Classical music - who even listens to that anymore?" My ex-friends would have
said. Their white school uniform was plagued by the black tie, skirt and blazer.
[Their black seifuku uniforms plagued the white shirt underneath] At lunchtime, they
had outrageously danced and screamed to more recent and popular music.
Can your little violin do THIS?
I couldnt bear watching. My heart couldnt resist, but I didnt know what to do. Was
it wrong to play the violin? It was as if everything I have lived for was meretricious.
Their mocking left me stranded, stuck inside a never ending whirlpool of chaos.
Kaori, thats not music. THIS is.
What was this?
As angry tears rolled down my cheeks, I grabbed my sheet music and violin case,
and broke into a run. I had called my parents before nightfall that I would be late.
After taking a nap under a pile of books at a local library, I had arrived at home
before just before midnight, where I stared sorrowfully at my violin.
The bow slept in serenity, resting on the neck of the violin, its feet still lying on my
bed. I had gently woken it, holding it by my left hand and grasping the bow with my
right. After taking a sigh of relief, my bow struck the strings, overflowing with a
heartwarming, welcoming melody.
The fact that no one has as yet arisen to make the most of it does not prove that
nothing is there.
Dvorak, half a decade later, Im finally there.
Where music draws the lost ships like me to the dock.
My mouth opens slightly. My tongue tastes a drop of sea water. My fingers anchor
down on the strings, refusing to let go.
Crescendo, Decrescendo.