Puddles

Practice

They say practice makes perfect.

They say if you practice something eventually you'll get it.

So, if I practice my instrument everyday, will I eventually be perfect?

No.

Ludwig Van Beethoven once said, "Don't only practice your art, but force your way into it's secrets, for it and knowledge can raise man to the divine."

There is no way to really perfect anything. There are small flaws, small details, small imperfections that make mastering anything nearly impossible.

Nearly.

Nothing is truly impossible, right? And while it might not be possible to master something like the violin or the cello in a person's lifetime, things can come rather close. I'm sure of it.

Now, outside, we see a girl. She can't be more than fifteen years of age. She sits alone on the patio, the only light illuminated by the porch lights. Everything else is dark and ominous.

The girl takes her instrument out if her case. A violin, tuned and ready to be played as soon as the bow is taken out.

The bow comes out. The wood of the bow is a red brown color, the horse hair turned white with rosin. Next, she flips her music binder open to a piece of sheet music.

Setting bow to string, the first note is set in the air, a happy air to it. Then the next notes, and on and on and on. The music carries off into the wind, imperfect notes floating around.

The notes aren't perfect. The tune sways a bit. And that seems to bother the girl. Eight minutes later, the piece has been played, the girl slightly panting at the length of the piece of music. She slumps in her seat.

Staring thoughtfully at the sheet music, she chews her lip, furrowing her brows. Her eyes flick over to her phone, as she catches it light up with a notification.

She grabs her phone, music still filling her ears. She clicks on the notification, opening the app. Reading what was displayed on the screen, she rolled her eyes and groaned.

Her thoughts fill the air, as she thinks to herself. "Of course, when people mistreat me they expect me to shrug it off and not want revenge or whatever, but when they are down in the dumps, they get to wallow in their own self pity and wish to die. How many times have I been that person? How many times have I cried for help and everyone ignore me?" She stated, venom and hatred filling her voice.

"Here I am, a practicing fifteen year old girl, trying to perfect her music, and I may as well have a sticker that says, "broken beyond repair", and there's this person who does everything right according to society and she still thinks she has it worse than me." She spat, disgusted.

She huffed and picked up her violin again. "Whatever, I'll just play my frustrations out." She muttered, and set bow to string once more.

She tried to make the piece sound angry, and soon stopped playing. "Of course this has to be a happy piece, because why would we allow me to get my anger out?"

She focused on the music once more, sighing and breathing out, her shoulders relaxing. Then, she played the piece again, the music stuttering as she tried to correct herself without faltering the tempo. But she persisted.

Because in this world, there's nothing else one can do but practice.