Not becoming a rarity, she remained a

Not becoming a rarity, she remained a

In the old grey room on the last floor of a historic five-story building, which has preserved cracks-traces even after the great Patriotic War, in the corner without Wallpaper She stood. She is lonely, and sad. Sadly looked on the surrounding furniture, remembering the old days. She remembered Him when he touched It. Gently and always carefully…

Pridavas these memories, she forgot all the pain and all the time, which broke it, as the storm breaks the trees. About twenty years ago she was young and beautiful. She caught the glances of admiring fans who listened to her. Listened as the Goddess. Listened and caught every echo. They were torn to pieces from It. What bliss to break hearts! What bliss to snatch the soul! What monstrous fun to catch drops of tears…

time Passed. The first blow fell on his neck that had already been AgroVet from frequent touch. She was hurt. It hurts to feel as rough dirty Shoe hits with all the relics and pieces of Her skin scattered in remote corners not yet old room. He had not touched it, because It no longer was. Was another who hasn’t seen It anything other than a regular six-string guitar.

Now It does not emit any sound. No strings have not kept Her istrana the fretboard to the neck. And not a soul looks at her with bliss and desire to touch her…

the year Will be and the house will be demolished. Her soul will forever hover over the miserable plot of land and make sad sounds of past happiness… Only happiness was not admiring the views, not broken hearts, not in drops of tears… Happiness was in the music, in the unity that was created by He and She.

I Want to believe that there are those madmen who can connect to the instrument together. I want to believe that music, real, sincere, make you stop and think, still alive. I want to believe that in music – soul. I want to believe that a madman will not be mad without his half… I Want to believe that half will not be able to be half of anyone other than the madman. I want to believe that music is able to breathe through the strings, which touches the madman.

Not becoming a rarity, She remained a

Author: Nataly