in the room there is a chair - the only piece of furniture left.
it is being given away. on the chair is a vase. nobody knows quite how the vase arrived in the family, but it’s like it’s always been there. when the new owners of the chair come and pack it up, the vase is gone. tucked in a bundle of blankets, the vase goes to the family’s new home. the next morning, the vase sits unpacked on a shelf. it looks different; near the rim, one of the painted buds has disappeared, in its place, a flower. we all have music within us,
we always have. music beyond language, for language changes. words can wound when yielded by people, like knives. not music. the music within us does not seek to harm. it perseveres, cannot die, has no shield. but it can be hidden. |