something borrowed, something blue.

i draw the violin case from beneath a muddle of books and bags. i think to myself how strange it is - the fact that I've ceased to notice it for so long, and yet, when the need arises, i know just where to find it.

its case is weathered and frayed and at first, i take it out carelessly. it's after all, just another object, an object which used to be mine. but then again, my fingers jerk in disagreement. my fingers, my palm - they have memorized this feel, this supple grip, this delicate curvature. and so, i slow down, consciously and deliberately drawing it out - as i have done so many times before.

opening the case of something musical, something of such sentimental value for the first time in a long time can be indescribably profound. it's as if the butterflies of a forgotten past, a cobwebbed corner in your soul suddenly comes alive. hastily, i unzip the case, not quite realising that my breath is held. i am imbued with anticipation; i am not even sure why. and then there's this sudden still in the air as my eyes fall upon the instrument.

for some reason, my heart sinks. it hurts deep within; i am inexplicably torn - torn for feeling so connected and yet, so irreparably distant. this amorphous veil flutters limply between us and there is this stale feeling of loving something that will never quite be truly yours again. it hits me like a surging wave - the endless hours of practicing, the orchestra days of blindly playing along and sliding small fingers up and down fingerboards, the trembling hands as a recital begins. it starts off as a single note, a harmony which then escalates into a full-blown symphony.

i catch my breath as i gently let my fingers run across the exquisite wood, the fingerboard, the bridge. i caress the strings almost longingly, hoping somehow that my touch would elicit the same sounds that had resonated in my dreams once upon a long time ago. i am surprised at myself, for never had i imagined that i would feel such an infinite attachment to this music-making thing in my hands.

but this moment of epiphany passes (as all moments do) and crumbles away. the wings of the butterflies of old slow to a still. i cannot help but wonder why after all the things we have been through together, you still seems like something borrowed, something blue.