My fingers are clattering over the keyboard so pathetically supple and fast. Just minutes ago it was my violin's neck they were running up and down, lightly pressing the strings on the finger board in so many different directions, so chaotically panicked and fast when watched with the eye, but so peacefully relaxed and orderly when listened to with the ear. Like lightning and rain, as if time were nonexistent and it all happened at once, but nevertheless the result being a perfectly balanced, melodic line of sounds in harmony with the atmosphere created by the entirety. My left arm moving to and fro, as the skin between my thumb and index finger easily slides over the smooth wood to change positions, my right arm elegantly bending back and forth as my wrist bends forth and back, my upper arm lifting my bow up and down over the strings simultaneously with the rising and falling of the notes...

Ecstasy of perfection.

No, ecstasy of perfection being within reach. It is a game to be won. It is a bet between the mind and the body. It is a thrill to seek out and encounter. It is music, or music to be.

But the body shall never be able to succeed if the mind will not cease to attempt to grasp each fragile movement delicately planned out by unconsciousness. However, the body shall never learn to independently find its way about the violin if the mind does not instruct it first. The mind must tutor, the mind must afflict, the mind must bond, the mind must love � and then the mind must deliver; must dismiss.

The mind directs, the body conquers.
But then the mind must never interfere again, for the body shall lose its expertise.

My violin is my breath.

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I feel so