That From Which Freedom Sings

They fidget, they tap, they itch. The muscles tremble in anticipation, sending images to your mind. Anticipation, excitement. The feel of thin metal digging into soft flesh. Speeding over the wood, flying, creating.

The feeling spreads from your fingers to your stomach, where you begin to feel restlessness brewing. How long can you wait until you do it again? A finger twitches. Your gaze strays downwards.

It’s lying there innocently. You have yet to touch it, but from it your name resonates, singing freedom from under your fingers. It’s more than just a tool. It’s an extension of your body, of your fingers.

Paper flutters its loneliness from upon the stand. A story that sings when you read it.

So you pick up the wooden instrument, and rest it under your chin. It sighs into your shoulder, and cups your jaw in a loving embrace. With your other hand you bring up its counterpart, and let it settle on the string. Your fingers fall into a familiar position, and freedom sings forth.

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