Silent Song

Strings run like parallel lines, their tones echo through the room. Words are sung, and words are spoken.

I listen.

I hear the squeak of the strings as fingers move across them. I hear the chime of the chords as they are being played, softly. They pull at me, as though it is me who is being tuned and strummed, and not the strings at all. As though it is me who is being pulled to create melody – my soul stretched to be able to sing the right song.

My eyes wander as I listen. I am here, but I’m not.

My gaze runs across the blue of the sky out the window. It is a clear sky, robin’s egg blue. A line of gold runs along the bottom where wheat fields meet the sky. And on the horizon, far off in the distance. My eyes rest on the horizon, and for a moment I am there.

Standing underneath the wide open-ness of the sky, not a cloud to be seen. Blue above and gold below. Patches of white are tucked into the gold, still clinging to the ground – snow which is stubbornly rebelling against the change of season. Cold air is chilling my body, my feet are sinking into the half-frozen earth, while sunlight warms my face.

My wandering eyes have brought me there.

I blink. I shiver. My gaze moves back to the room. Filled again by the sound of the strings, I breathe deep and listen. Quietly strumming, the notes chime. They hit and break the silence in the room. They burst song into existence. They fling upward.

My eyes wander again, this time up, along with the music. I am here, but I’m not.

Planks run like parallel lines on the ceiling, their direction mimics the strings. The wooden ceiling meets in a peak at the highest point. The wood is the colour of honey, and it varies – light gold in some spots, deep and shadowed in others. The mottled variations in the wood remind me of the trees I’d see while hiking when I was young. My mind rests on the memory, and for a moment I am there.

There on a coastal trail. The sharp smell of sea water and the strong scent of damp earth compete with each other for my attention as I make my way along. Hiking boots strapped firmly to my feet, slipping against the loose gravel and pine needles on the ground. To my left, deep blue ocean water rises in peaks before it crashes against the rocky shore. The sunlight catches each peak. They sparkle into my vision. Seagulls wheel above me in circles, mournfully calling to each other. I lick my lips and taste salt as ocean mist fills the air.

My wandering mind has brought me there.

The crashing twang of a string draws my attention back to the room. All at once I am fully back – back to the music, and back to the silence mixed in. My eyes see the dark patterns on the instrument and the curve of it’s body. The contrast of metal against wood. My ears hear the song as it makes it’s way out. It is drawn slowly into being present by the skillful fingers of the writer of the song.

I rest on this moment, and I am here.

I am here. My heart runs like a parallel line, it mimics the direction of the song. I wander, but I return, again and again to this room and these sounds. I am bound by this song. And though my eyes and my mind are prone to wander, this song always pulls me close. These notes are a like a fetter. They bind my heart here. They bring me back to this silent, song filled room.

Back again to be stretched and tuned. Back, close enough for my soul to begin to fling up into existence, alongside the notes.

Quietly, I listen. I close my eyes and I rest my thoughts. I am filled by the music. I am learning to sing this song.

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Leila Elizabeth

Always a lover of words, I began reading them at a young age, and began creating with them shortly thereafter.

A bend in the road led me to embrace my introversion, and to discover my identity as a highly sensitive person. As I have moved along the path in learning more about who I am, how to take care of myself as an introvert, and how to handle the challenges of life as an HSP - my love of writing has been rekindled and embraced once again. It intertwines with the journey I am on, and is reflected in what I write.