>A soft melody reverberates throughout the room.
>A bow, drawn across strings creates it.
>Although benign to some, it demonstrates its ability to give way to beauty.
>At times, it’s a wonder that such a thing could be possible in the world.
>Passing thoughts aside, instruments are unique in how they are able to draw out an emotion or two.
>Though that in of itself is the nature of music.
>And right now, somewhere, out there, a song is being played – performed, recorded, or otherwise.
>A number of them will never be heard, save for the exception of the musician themselves who played it.
>This current piece is slow, controlled, and gentle in its rhythm.
>Each note receives attention, which in turn adds to yet another part of the song.
>It’s all done in… practice.
>Perfect practice makes perfect.
>That lesson was etched in stone.
>Music itself, however, is among the few that remain eternal; lasting after the world is long gone.
>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.
>It’s as though the musician is treated as a magician who’s spells are beyond mortal comprehension.
>While flattering, it is not true.
>Countless hours are spent in perfecting the craft, yet they do not understand.
>Even if it were to be explained in the simplest of terms, nothing would change.
>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.
>Wisdom tempers that, like a smith who tempers the blade.
>With this current edge played, it too, can cut, though solely in the form of music.
>A voice, or sometimes voices, can create it, as well.
>Singing, however, is out of your pool of talents.
>That leaves this violin.
>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.
>Nevertheless, the thought is true – it would be nice to have more skills to rely on.
>Time is short, so there is no room for it, sadly.
>Life itself is even shorter, therefore what is left has to be spent in mastering the violin.
>Some would say, and have said, that has already been accomplished; in addition to saying it is done flawlessly.
>That would be incorrect.
>To the highly trained (such as yourself), it’s easy to discern it.
>Which is why so much effort is given to remove the flaws.
>It’s a matter of being better than yesterday, last week, last month, last year, and so on, and so forth.

>Perfect, perfect, perfect…
>That’s all that’s needed evermore.
>Every step must be measured.
>Each word uttered from tongue and teeth has to be, too.
>And the way the public sees you is especially tricky.
>Because all of that has to be done perfectly.
>For just as music is practiced to remove flaws, you too, must remove your own.
>A thought comes about, one that was heard in passing, “All things are clay brought into the world to be molded into greatness.”
>Mother and father were the ones to bring you forth.
>Your tutors did the initial refinement.
>That altogether, has sculpted you into the mare you are now today.
>But, in spite of those efforts, there is still a great distance to cross before you become what you /need/ to be.
>These songs are not played perfectly.
>The parties have yet to achieve peak perfection.
>Those are just two things that have to be taken care of.
>Progress is akin to a snail, but that’s due to one, simple, little reason.
>You.
>Always you.
>Mistakes are made, all of which can be avoided.
>A grave echo of a snap draws practicing to a halt.
>It takes but a mere second to know it didn’t come from the violin, not the room, nor from outside the apartment.
>An old memory from the past that remains as a reminder to focus.
>Distractions are not supposed to stop practice.
>This makes this a mistake; another avoidable one.
>By allowing it to happen, it proves how flawed you still are.
>Flaws come about unbidden.
>You utter a quiet breath with a slow shake of your head, golden bangs bouncing lightly.
>Silence holds throughout the dead air of the bedroom.
>It is unnerving, wrong.
>Every fiber of your being is wound in a tight, container; dressed in equine form.
>Part of that is from the mistake made, while the rest is from the upcoming concert.
>Despite it being a ways away, it looms overhead, as if it were a thick fog to devour all in sight.
>Perhaps a short break can remedy this.
>Why, so you can slack off?
>No, but staying tense will only make practice more difficult.
>That will lead to more flaws.
>You cannot afford anymore of those.
>Another may just create a… crack.
>A crack leads to compromising the whole.
>That leads to a simple conclusion – breaking.
“No!”
>J-just… focus.
>Focus and breathe.
>A breath in, a breath out.
>Repeat.
>A breath in, a breath out.
>Again.
>A breath in, a breath out.
>Better.
>All things are right where they need to be.
>Nothing is wrong, everything is perfectly perfect.

>Now, time to take a short break, practice can continue afterwords.
>Setting aside your violin, you venture out of the bedroom.
>Warm sunlight pours in from the large windows in the spacious living room, bathing everything in great detail.
>The world outside bustles with life.
>Every so often, a pegasus or two can be seen flying towards destinations unknown.
>On the streets below, carriages and various ponies of all kinds are going about their lives.
>An audible ticktock comes from the grandfather clock against the wall.
>A home warming gift from mother and father.
>The face reads a quarter till one; drawing upon a dull pang of hunger from within.
>It seems practice overtook lunch.
>Unlike most things taught in youth, cooking was entirely learned in solitude.
>That was always so very /rare/.
>They were simultaneously cherished and despised.
>The former, because it was a time to have a breath of fresh air, yet the latter kept it short lived.
>Mother and father themselves ensured that.
>Speaking of them, they will be expecting a letter soon.
>Later, for now, make food and eat.
>A couple simple sandwiches are made.
>Like most things in life, even the matter of eating was – and is – practiced.
>Chew sufficiently, swallow, wipe mouth with napkin, sip some water, then take a small bite, and repeat all over again.
>Perfect practice makes perfect.
>After eating, the dishes are cleaned.
>And of course, this too, is done perfectly.
>From there, the letter to mother and father is started.
>Soft scratching of quill upon parchment fills the air in addition to the ticking of the clock.
>Nestled within reach is a pile of unfinished musical pieces.
>While flawed, they cannot be tossed out, as that would be foolish because they can be learned from.
>But maybe someday that will change.
>For now, the letter is finished in time, containing but a simple update.
>Mother and father always want to know the details of your day-to-day life, regardless of what it might entail.
>You make your way downstairs to the series of mailboxes.
>Upon reaching them, sounds from the world outside bleed in.
>Voices, some who shout, others who speak softly.
>Clopping of hooves going to and fro.
>Doors opening and closing.
>Rumbling of carriages.
>They come together in a melody of sorts.
>Perhaps this could be composed together, and-
>That is not how music is made, or did you forget your teachings?
>No.
>Good.
>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.
>Any other idea or attempt is foolish.
>Both mother and father, your tutors, too, repeated that, over and over.

>They stated it as fact, and it remains true forevermore.
>Yes, of course.
>Are you certain?
>Ignoring that thought, you set the letter into the outbox, then retreat to your apartment.
>Too much time has been wasted already.
>That should not have happened.
>By letting it, the path to perfection will take longer.
>That is not something you would want, unless… you’re ACTIVELY making yourself further flawed.
>The grave echoing snap from before forces you to jolt suddenly.
>Breath.
>Focus.
>Breath.
>Good, everything is right.
>Back to the bedroom to practice.
>Retrieving your violin, you adjust it until it’s perfect, and from there, music fills the space like it did earlier.
>Your eyes follow the notes laid out across the pages.
>They speak about the song in ways that words can never quite accomplish.
>Some have highs, some have lows, yet the beauty remains consistent throughout.
>Melody consumes all things; bringing about a heavenly sound that graces those who can witness it.
>Perfect practice makes perfect.
>Again.
>And again.
>And again…
>It must be done until it is ALL perfect.
>Remember what the tutors taught.
>Remember what mother and father said.
>Nothing else matters.
>The end of the song is reached; with that, you exhale a shaky breath.
>There’s a subtle stirring inside, but it’s ignored.
>This song is important, special even, more so than most others.
>From what was read on its history, it was written during a trying time when the composer experienced a great heartbreak.
>That’s something you have yet to truly experience.
>There was once a face and name in the distant past that was left behind, though.
>A blurry face, gray, with a dark mane and tail.
>So sad.
>So lost.
>Yet…
>In that moment, the stirring inside grows further.
>It swells, gathering in your beating heart.
>Much has been experienced, but not enough to fill a lifetime.
>On the surface, those amounted to being flawless.
>Within, there are fractures.
>They’ve been there since forever.
>Needless to say, keeping them where they are is difficult.
>No pony needs to know about them.
>Not your peers.
>Not mother and father.
>Not a soul.
>They couldn’t understand, they wouldn’t.
>They’re blind.
>They only want you to be perfectly perfect, like it always has been demanded.
>Perfect, perfect, perfect…
>How can that ever be achieved if there are fractures, though?
>Your breathing turns heavy with that thought.
>Breath, that will right the wrongs.
>A breath in, a breath out.
>Repeat.
>A breath in, a breath out.
>Again-
>No.
>What-?
>NO.
>Your violin starts to slip from your grasp.
>Focus and breathe.
>No, enough of this.
>Enough? No, if you don’t do it, you /know/ what will happen next.
>This is too much to handle…
>Do not be stupid.
>A sharper, yet similar echo from before comes about unexpectedly.
>Yet, there is no flinching in response this time.
>Instead, everything turns standstill.

>Silence falls.
>Then, all at once, the world shatters into a million-billion, disfigured pieces.
>No color, just shades of gray.
>No sound, just types of silence.
>No soul, just you.
>Everything composed is insignificant in this vast, empty world around.
>You scream, but nothing comes out.
>You cry, but no tears fall.
>You move, but remain in place.
>You are not you.
>A lie, wrapped in a little earth pony form.
>It is all but a twisted, torrential storm that sweeps across the landscape, staying as unforgiving as can be.
>Even that ends eventually, with peak coming about without warning.
>Everything falls dark, quiet even.
>Nothingness.
>A pinprick of light appears in the middle of all things, followed by a dull, drowned out sound.
>Lastly, you come to, Connie.
>Pain (both physical and mental) play an orchestra throughout.
>You find yourself on the bedroom floor, curled up on your side.
>In blurry sight, your violin is within view, seemingly discarded without so much as a single thought.
>Music sheets are scatted about, with some being crumpled or torn apart.
>Even the bedding, along with any pictures, books, and more have been strewn across the room.
>You blink, eyes burning from fires long since dead.
>Your breath, lungs ache like they had been pushed to their limits.
>In the final act, the crescendo arrives.
>No longer are there /just/ fractures inside, within your heart of hearts.
>Wider, deeper, uglier, they lie.
>Cracks.
>It’s been broken.
>A choked, pained sob escapes, followed by another, then another.
>Where there was once a heavily, musical melody, there is now pained agony.
>A symphony just for you.