Ringing Out
Jan. 13th, 2012 04:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
intheheartTitle: Ringing Out
Rating: PG.
Summary: Olivia and the music.
Notes: Another perspective on Olivia's healing process. And sort of a commentary on depression and creativity.
The room is always quiet, before she begins; she likes it that way. A moment of contemplation, concentration, then she lifts her hands and...
The music ripples through the air, a stone dropped in the still pond of silence. The keys press back against her fingers, smooth and slick. Or maybe the violin is smooth under her chin, the strings vibrating under her fingers as she bows. Maybe the flute keys click gently as she pushes them. Maybe the clarinet reed hums in her mouth,.
The sound is all she knows, when she plays. The music is all there is.
--
The room is never quiet, now but she tries anyway, over the noise of the traffic racing outside and the wind whistling in through the door that doesn't quite fit the jamb. She tries to concentrate, tries to block it all out, lifts her flute to her lips or puts her hands on the keys and...
And nothing happens. She plays, the music rings out, but it's never quite what she needs. Maybe her mother stomps in and yells at her to shut up. Maybe a horn blares and she loses her concentration.
It's not an escape anymore. Nothing is.
--
She's been on antidepressants for a month, been looking at colleges for a week. She thinks it's helping. She thinks she can start over now, if she can only get away. She thinks...
She shakes her head, and concentrates. She won't think now. She closes her eyes and puts her hands on the keys and...
When she opens her eyes again it's an hour later and the sonatas are still singing through her mind, like the clear bright ringing of bells. It's back. It all came back.
She puts her head down on the piano and weeps from sheer relief.
Rating: PG.
Summary: Olivia and the music.
Notes: Another perspective on Olivia's healing process. And sort of a commentary on depression and creativity.
The room is always quiet, before she begins; she likes it that way. A moment of contemplation, concentration, then she lifts her hands and...
The music ripples through the air, a stone dropped in the still pond of silence. The keys press back against her fingers, smooth and slick. Or maybe the violin is smooth under her chin, the strings vibrating under her fingers as she bows. Maybe the flute keys click gently as she pushes them. Maybe the clarinet reed hums in her mouth,.
The sound is all she knows, when she plays. The music is all there is.
--
The room is never quiet, now but she tries anyway, over the noise of the traffic racing outside and the wind whistling in through the door that doesn't quite fit the jamb. She tries to concentrate, tries to block it all out, lifts her flute to her lips or puts her hands on the keys and...
And nothing happens. She plays, the music rings out, but it's never quite what she needs. Maybe her mother stomps in and yells at her to shut up. Maybe a horn blares and she loses her concentration.
It's not an escape anymore. Nothing is.
--
She's been on antidepressants for a month, been looking at colleges for a week. She thinks it's helping. She thinks she can start over now, if she can only get away. She thinks...
She shakes her head, and concentrates. She won't think now. She closes her eyes and puts her hands on the keys and...
When she opens her eyes again it's an hour later and the sonatas are still singing through her mind, like the clear bright ringing of bells. It's back. It all came back.
She puts her head down on the piano and weeps from sheer relief.
