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>A soft melody reverberates throughout the room.
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>A bow, drawn across strings creates it.
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>Although benign to some, it demonstrates its ability to give way to beauty.
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>At times, it’s a wonder that such a thing could be possible in the world.
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>Passing thoughts aside, instruments are unique in how they are able to draw out an emotion or two.
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>Though that in of itself is the nature of music.
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>And right now, somewhere, out there, a song is being played – performed, recorded, or otherwise.
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>A number of them will never be heard, save for the exception of the musician themselves who played it.
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>This current piece is slow, controlled, and gentle in its rhythm.
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>Each note receives attention, which in turn adds to yet another part of the song.
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>It’s all done in… practice.
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>Perfect practice makes perfect.
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>That lesson was etched in stone.
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>Music itself, however, is among the few that remain eternal; lasting after the world is long gone.
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>The musicians who create it, share it, are often called talented, blessed, or even some other word that an observer will feel to befit them.
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>It’s as though the musician is treated as a magician who’s spells are beyond mortal comprehension.
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>While flattering, it is not true.
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>Countless hours are spent in perfecting the craft, yet they do not understand.
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>Even if it were to be explained in the simplest of terms, nothing would change.
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>There is no anger to be had about such matters, as they’re ignorant, and ignorance is case of lacking information, which can be learned at a later time.
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>Wisdom tempers that, like a smith who tempers the blade.
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>With this current edge played, it too, can cut, though solely in the form of music.
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>A voice, or sometimes voices, can create it, as well.
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>Singing, however, is out of your pool of talents.
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>That leaves this violin.
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>These passing thoughts always attempt to lead you astray, but they’ve been around long enough to learn how to deal with them for the most part.
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>Nevertheless, the thought is true – it would be nice to have more skills to rely on.
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>Time is short, so there is no room for it, sadly.
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>Life itself is even shorter, therefore what is left has to be spent in mastering the violin.
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>Some would say, and have said, that has already been accomplished; in addition to saying it is done flawlessly.
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>That would be incorrect.
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>To the highly trained (such as yourself), it’s easy to discern it.
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>Which is why so much effort is given to remove the flaws.
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>It’s a matter of being better than yesterday, last week, last month, last year, and so on, and so forth.
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>Perfect, perfect, perfect…
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>That’s all that’s needed evermore.
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>Every step must be measured.
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>Each word uttered from tongue and teeth has to be, too.
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>And the way the public sees you is especially tricky.
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>Because all of that has to be done perfectly.
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>For just as music is practiced to remove flaws, you too, must remove your own.
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>A thought comes about, one that was heard in passing, “All things are clay brought into the world to be molded into greatness.”
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>Mother and father were the ones to bring you forth.
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>Your tutors did the initial refinement.
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>That altogether, has sculpted you into the mare you are now today.
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>But, in spite of those efforts, there is still a great distance to cross before you become what you /need/ to be.
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>These songs are not played perfectly.
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>The parties have yet to achieve peak perfection.
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>Those are just two things that have to be taken care of.
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>Progress is akin to a snail, but that’s due to one, simple, little reason.
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>You.
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>Always you.
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>Mistakes are made, all of which can be avoided.
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>A grave echo of a snap draws practicing to a halt.
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>It takes but a mere second to know it didn’t come from the violin, not the room, nor from outside the apartment.
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>An old memory from the past that remains as a reminder to focus.
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>Distractions are not supposed to stop practice.
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>This makes this a mistake; another avoidable one.
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>By allowing it to happen, it proves how flawed you still are.
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>Flaws come about unbidden.
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>You utter a quiet breath with a slow shake of your head, golden bangs bouncing lightly.
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>Silence holds throughout the dead air of the bedroom.
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>It is unnerving, wrong.
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>Every fiber of your being is wound in a tight, container; dressed in equine form.
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>Part of that is from the mistake made, while the rest is from the upcoming concert.
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>Despite it being a ways away, it looms overhead, as if it were a thick fog to devour all in sight.
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>Perhaps a short break can remedy this.
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>Why, so you can slack off?
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>No, but staying tense will only make practice more difficult.
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>That will lead to more flaws.
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>You cannot afford anymore of those.
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>Another may just create a… crack.
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>A crack leads to compromising the whole.
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>That leads to a simple conclusion – breaking.
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“No!”
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>J-just… focus.
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>Focus and breathe.
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>A breath in, a breath out.
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>Repeat.
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>A breath in, a breath out.
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>Again.
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>A breath in, a breath out.
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>Better.
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>All things are right where they need to be.
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>Nothing is wrong, everything is perfectly perfect.
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>Now, time to take a short break, practice can continue afterwords.
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>Setting aside your violin, you venture out of the bedroom.
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>Warm sunlight pours in from the large windows in the spacious living room, bathing everything in great detail.
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>The world outside bustles with life.
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>Every so often, a pegasus or two can be seen flying towards destinations unknown.
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>On the streets below, carriages and various ponies of all kinds are going about their lives.
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>An audible ticktock comes from the grandfather clock against the wall.
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>A home warming gift from mother and father.
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>The face reads a quarter till one; drawing upon a dull pang of hunger from within.
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>It seems practice overtook lunch.
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>Unlike most things taught in youth, cooking was entirely learned in solitude.
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>That was always so very /rare/.
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>They were simultaneously cherished and despised.
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>The former, because it was a time to have a breath of fresh air, yet the latter kept it short lived.
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>Mother and father themselves ensured that.
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>Speaking of them, they will be expecting a letter soon.
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>Later, for now, make food and eat.
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>A couple simple sandwiches are made.
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>Like most things in life, even the matter of eating was – and is – practiced.
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>Chew sufficiently, swallow, wipe mouth with napkin, sip some water, then take a small bite, and repeat all over again.
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>Perfect practice makes perfect.
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>After eating, the dishes are cleaned.
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>And of course, this too, is done perfectly.
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>From there, the letter to mother and father is started.
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>Soft scratching of quill upon parchment fills the air in addition to the ticking of the clock.
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>Nestled within reach is a pile of unfinished musical pieces.
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>While flawed, they cannot be tossed out, as that would be foolish because they can be learned from.
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>But maybe someday that will change.
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>For now, the letter is finished in time, containing but a simple update.
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>Mother and father always want to know the details of your day-to-day life, regardless of what it might entail.
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>You make your way downstairs to the series of mailboxes.
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>Upon reaching them, sounds from the world outside bleed in.
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>Voices, some who shout, others who speak softly.
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>Clopping of hooves going to and fro.
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>Doors opening and closing.
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>Rumbling of carriages.
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>They come together in a melody of sorts.
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>Perhaps this could be composed together, and-
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>That is not how music is made, or did you forget your teachings?
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>No.
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>Good.
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>True music comes from harnessing instruments made by hooves and hearts; voices in harmony to create words in song, and is finalized in the form that the orchestra brings alone.
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>Any other idea or attempt is foolish.
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>Both mother and father, your tutors, too, repeated that, over and over.
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>They stated it as fact, and it remains true forevermore.
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>Yes, of course.
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>Are you certain?
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>Ignoring that thought, you set the letter into the outbox, then retreat to your apartment.
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>Too much time has been wasted already.
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>That should not have happened.
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>By letting it, the path to perfection will take longer.
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>That is not something you would want, unless… you’re ACTIVELY making yourself further flawed.
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>The grave echoing snap from before forces you to jolt suddenly.
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>Breath.
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>Focus.
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>Breath.
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>Good, everything is right.
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>Back to the bedroom to practice.
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>Retrieving your violin, you adjust it until it’s perfect, and from there, music fills the space like it did earlier.
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>Your eyes follow the notes laid out across the pages.
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>They speak about the song in ways that words can never quite accomplish.
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>Some have highs, some have lows, yet the beauty remains consistent throughout.
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>Melody consumes all things; bringing about a heavenly sound that graces those who can witness it.
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>Perfect practice makes perfect.
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>Again.
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>And again.
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>And again…
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>It must be done until it is ALL perfect.
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>Remember what the tutors taught.
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>Remember what mother and father said.
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>Nothing else matters.
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>The end of the song is reached; with that, you exhale a shaky breath.
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>There’s a subtle stirring inside, but it’s ignored.
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>This song is important, special even, more so than most others.
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>From what was read on its history, it was written during a trying time when the composer experienced a great heartbreak.
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>That’s something you have yet to truly experience.
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>There was once a face and name in the distant past that was left behind, though.
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>A blurry face, gray, with a dark mane and tail.
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>So sad.
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>So lost.
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>Yet…
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>In that moment, the stirring inside grows further.
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>It swells, gathering in your beating heart.
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>Much has been experienced, but not enough to fill a lifetime.
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>On the surface, those amounted to being flawless.
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>Within, there are fractures.
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>They’ve been there since forever.
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>Needless to say, keeping them where they are is difficult.
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>No pony needs to know about them.
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>Not your peers.
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>Not mother and father.
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>Not a soul.
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>They couldn’t understand, they wouldn’t.
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>They’re blind.
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>They only want you to be perfectly perfect, like it always has been demanded.
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>Perfect, perfect, perfect…
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>How can that ever be achieved if there are fractures, though?
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>Your breathing turns heavy with that thought.
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>Breath, that will right the wrongs.
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>A breath in, a breath out.
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>Repeat.
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>A breath in, a breath out.
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>Again-
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>No.
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>What-?
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>NO.
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>Your violin starts to slip from your grasp.
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>Focus and breathe.
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>No, enough of this.
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>Enough? No, if you don’t do it, you /know/ what will happen next.
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>This is too much to handle…
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>Do not be stupid.
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>A sharper, yet similar echo from before comes about unexpectedly.
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>Yet, there is no flinching in response this time.
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>Instead, everything turns standstill.
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>Silence falls.
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>Then, all at once, the world shatters into a million-billion, disfigured pieces.
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>No color, just shades of gray.
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>No sound, just types of silence.
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>No soul, just you.
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>Everything composed is insignificant in this vast, empty world around.
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>You scream, but nothing comes out.
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>You cry, but no tears fall.
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>You move, but remain in place.
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>You are not you.
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>A lie, wrapped in a little earth pony form.
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>It is all but a twisted, torrential storm that sweeps across the landscape, staying as unforgiving as can be.
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>Even that ends eventually, with peak coming about without warning.
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>Everything falls dark, quiet even.
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>Nothingness.
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>A pinprick of light appears in the middle of all things, followed by a dull, drowned out sound.
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>Lastly, you come to, Connie.
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>Pain (both physical and mental) play an orchestra throughout.
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>You find yourself on the bedroom floor, curled up on your side.
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>In blurry sight, your violin is within view, seemingly discarded without so much as a single thought.
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>Music sheets are scatted about, with some being crumpled or torn apart.
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>Even the bedding, along with any pictures, books, and more have been strewn across the room.
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>You blink, eyes burning from fires long since dead.
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>Your breath, lungs ache like they had been pushed to their limits.
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>In the final act, the crescendo arrives.
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>No longer are there /just/ fractures inside, within your heart of hearts.
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>Wider, deeper, uglier, they lie.
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>Cracks.
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>It’s been broken.
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>A choked, pained sob escapes, followed by another, then another.
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>Where there was once a heavily, musical melody, there is now pained agony.
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>A symphony just for you.
by NHanon
by NHanon
by NHanon
by NHanon
by NHanon