the violin and the tree || glory & collin

pt two, collin

Collin's father had forced him out into the woods. Again.

Not like he was complaining; it was a beautiful forest, one that he often enjoyed taking walks in. At least, when he decided to. However, being thrown into it at random times because his dad thought he should "get out more" was understandably far less enjoyable.

His usual companion, the journal, decided to tag along. Another entry was to be made, as per his routine. If his hand seemed drawn to the leather casing as he stepped out the door, he would bring it and document the events of the day. If not, the sun would rise and set without another word being written in its leaves.

The pen that he usually used with it was the book's opposite. Sleek, modern, and efficient, it could be found on the desks of many corporate executives. Why his father had given it to him, Collin would never understand. A pen couldn't bring out someone's inner entrepreneur. A tie, or a briefcase, maybe even a fancy watch-- but a pen was stretching things a little. He was tempted to "lose" it until his father informed him of the price. Now it was always in his pocket, Collin making sure it was being used to its full potential.

A four-hundred dollar pen was likely capable of several years' worth of penmanship.

When he had found the tree, something in him seemed to bask in the peaceful energy it gave off. He was inexplicably drawn to it, for a reason he couldn't fathom. Perhaps it was that slight acidic scent in the air, or the way the sunlight shone dappled shadows on the ground just inches from his shaded feet, almost as if it were teasing him.

He blinked. Such flowery thoughts were unnatural for him. Perhaps it was this setting that coaxed poetic lines from a forgotten crevice in his brain forged from storytelling and fairy tales as a child.

Taking a seat at its trunk, he took out his journal and raised his pen to the paper, marking the date before beginning to write the entry.

A soft, clear sound drew itself out from the branches above him; as subtly sweet as the dewdrops on morning grass and as poignant as a heartache.

He dropped his pen, listening in silence as Debussy's melody flowed through the air all the way down to the valley. Collin got the impression that all the noise in the area had softened, making way for the music that pervaded the clearing.

After a while he gathered his thoughts, realizing the music had stopped. Glancing at his wrist, he noticed with a touch of shock that twenty minutes had passed since he had started listening.

With another jolt of surprise, he saw that words had formed themselves on the page of his journal. That was his handwriting; he had written it. But when? This was today's entry, but he didn't recognize the words that had formed on his page.

Taking a closer look, he saw that they weren't coherent sentences-- rather, a jumble of words that seemed to emanate a feeling not unlike that of the music. It seemed his subconscious had documented the beauty of that moment and preserved it on paper, for him to cherish for years to come.

Collin didn't dare look up, for fear of sighting another person and ruining the enchantment of that moment. Instead, he gently tore the paper from his notebook and left it at the foot of the trunk, in the hopes that whomever had played such beautiful music would accept that as a thank-you. Additionally, he didn't want his father seeing such romantic language in his journal.

Lifting himself from the trunk's base, he stepped away from the tree, pausing and turning around to look among its branches.

Collin saw nothing other than greenery. Maybe it hadn't been real after all, and the song was nothing other than a figment of his imagination.

Nevertheless, he smiled softly and waved, thanking the tree for blessing him with the first peaceful moment he'd had in a very long time.

Then, he stepped back into the forest, making his way home.