Passion

He walked on the stage with an air of confidence and strutted across as if he owned it. In fact, by the time he reached front and center stage, he did. He had the attention of every soul decorated in the audience.

Standing in front of his crowd for a moment, he basked in the energy radiating through the atmosphere. So much anticipation and suspense building up, until he dramatically reached down for the case in front of him. After slowly opening it up, he pulled out his beautiful violin. She was groomed and shiny, obviously well kept; he loved nothing more.

He held her by the neck as he twisted her pegs and picked at her strings to prepare her. Only after she was ready would he grab his bow and slowly raise it to her strings. The people waited patiently through his process as he teased them. There was a simultaneous inhale when he lowered the bow. Easing the crowd into his obsession, back and forth, he'd push and pull the bow. He continued to gently glide it across her strings creating the most beautiful sequence of precious harmonies the people had ever heard.

There was a stillness that came over the crowd as he continued to play. They were frozen, trapped in a trance and oblivious to anything else. He had them right where he wanted them and began to increase the intensity. The soft sweet melody transitioned into series of sharp, strong, and powerful notes as he pushed and pulled the bow with more vigor and passion. His brow was furrowed , his jaw tightened, and his body began to twitch sharply as he extracted every bit of himself and put it into her; he loved nothing more. She was gorgeous and strong and he worked hard to keep her that way. He knew her well, but she also knew him. She interpreted every stroke of the bow and in turn sang a song that would never be played or heard quite the same again.

A tune that began so daintily and pink turned into a vehement, beautifully melancholic array of notes. He made the audience feel and he knew it. Joy, excitement, sadness, pain, gratefulness, peace, and everything in between; he made them feel. There were beads of sweat nestled at the top of his brow by the time he relaxed the pace once more just as he had began. He had taken them on a journey and was ready to take them back home. Some of the people had tears in their eyes as he neared the end and could not quite explain why.

Finally, just as carefully as he began, he guided the bow gently across her strings as he closed his eyes in appreciation. Not for the people in the audience that traveled miles and spent a considerable amount to see and hear him play, but appreciation for her. He was cocky, arrogant, and self absorbed because he knew there was no one that could play her the way he could. Still, at the end of every show however, he would close his eyes and thank her, she meant more to him than words could describe, more than any person ever had. He stroked her one last time before gracefully removing the bow from her and holding it by his side. He stood for a moment and accepted praise from the crowd, which motivated his ego, but not his soul, only she could do that.

She was a savior, a light, a refuge. She was his passion and he loved nothing more.