The Hammer And The String

Chapter 8

There i lie sitting against the walls of the music room that evening during lunch break, the sun dappled down the dusty music room in a haze, the smell of the evening dusts, wood and violin resin, the occasional hum from my guitar and the occasional tingling of Murphy's piano could be hear, the moment of that night hasn't left my mind, the starry sky, the orange gaslamps, the bustling town square offers a great escape from the harshness of our rigorous practice, but all of that doesn't mean that we got to avoid doing our best to perfect our pieces, there two rugged musicians lie on the floor of the music room, the metronome sitting on top of the upright played its constant melody mirroring our absolute boredom and hopelessness at that moment

After our 6th run of the Sonata Arpeggione we still hadn't able to do the difficult passage, whenever Murphy nailed the passage perfectly, i screwed it up, and whenever Murphy made a mistake, i was passing through the passage with no problem, that passage was like a holy trinity where there is no way that both of us can go through it perfectly

"This is hopeless," I said, "That passage is just so difficult to get through,"

Murphy, Across the room, slumped on the piano bench, Murphy mirrored my despair. Her shoulders drooped like wilted lilies, eyelids heavy as thunderheads. Fingers that usually coaxed symphonies from the keys now tapped out a desolate rhythm, a metronome to our shared misery. But then, a gust of wind rattled the window, swirling dust motes in a miniature solar system. And I swear, carried on that same spectral breeze, I heard it - a faint echo of her laughter, warm and infectious, tinged with the wistful tang of autumn leaves.

"How about we call it off for the day? I think we're both tired." Murphy said finally

The sun, a cruel jester, speared through the dusty window, each mote it illuminated another shard of my shattered confidence. Another failed attempt at Sonata Arpeggione hung heavy in the air, a spectral chorus of disappointment echoing in the silence. Outside, the world pulsed with carefree laughter, a mocking counterpoint to the silent war I waged within the music room.

A part of me wanted to say screw it and just take my guitar bag and go back to my mother's minivan and once i get home jump on my bed and go fast to sleep, but then a memory goes to my mind that night i talked with Elliot Andersen, the cellist from the Robinson's Cafe, as the night autumn wind blows, with the orange light illuminates our conversation, Competitions are just a snapshot Elliot had said, his voice a calming rumble. The real magic is in the journey, in creating something beautiful together. and not the piece itself

I keep going back to his words, something cryptic and mysterious, Maybe he's right... The real magic is the journey, maybe i should just let it go. screw it, maybe i'm not as good of a guitarist as i thought, but hey, does it matter, i loved music, i loved the guitar, and i'm not going anywhere

"Hey Murphy."

Murphy turned her head, from the floor, looking up-side down from my perspective,

"You wanna go through it one more time?"

Murphy groaned, then she sat straight up, and stretched, "Alright, one more time," she said, her voice surprisingly steady despite the fatigue etched in lines across her brow, the fire in her emerald eyes dimming with each repetition. This wasn't just practicing anymore; it was a marathon with an invisible finish line, and our legs ached with its relentless pace.

With a steady move she walked back to her upright piano, opened it, and played a firm scale to warm her fingers up, i took my classical guitar from the floor and did the spider scale to warm my fingers up,

"You ready?" I asked,

Murphy takes a deep breath, she seems really tired, her auburn hair who's usually tidily tied was rugged