the violin gifted by the archangel michael
the archangel michael has blessed me with music; what is my violin but the sound of my tears turning to mercury and shattering? and when He comes down to see what i have done for the world and my mother, i have nothing to show but transcripts. so when He asks: "daughter, what have you used this gift for?" i can only answer, the truth vomited out of me without the gentle touch i have learned to ask for over years of conditioning (when it comes to seraphic matters, none of my healing applies). and when i answer, i try to speak, but i sob instead. my music is demonic and broken. my strings snapped and my notes off-key. the rope tied around me is a sweet horse hair, taken from an especially rough go of a sonata. i am asked often how i can act so adult all the time, yet become a child in the face of my violin. why i am so quick to cry on the wood of my instrument but am so far from it in all other contexts (i grew up, but my violin did not grow up with me. the studio did not grow up with me, and it takes me back. my soul is healed, but my body's scarred wounds are torn open and bloody at the first chord of a concerto). so when my blessing, my music and my sounds are ripped from me, i remember what it felt like to be whole. when my sounds are only screams, i remember being untainted, when my music was full of innocence. a three year old girl walks with her mother into a violin studio in mong kok. her gentle cantonese is reflective of how she holds the instrument up to me. and i play, and i smile. but now when i play, i can only scream. the archangel michael had blessed me with music, but it is no more than a disgusting monster.