Eurydice

<p style=”clear: both”>Tacit.

There are things that exist only so long as they are unspoken. That are torture to the mind that would make everything explicit. Things that defy categories and resist speech. Things I may have so long as I don’t give in to temptation, turn my head, look back. Having being thus conditional. Everything is conditional. Nothing is absolute. Almost nothing.

A summer of being unable to write anything except in the privacy of journals, I find my violin is trying to give voice to everything that is resisting words. And it sounds best when no one else is in the room. I fight to reclaim skills lost years and years ago.

I ask myself for whom I write, why I am writing. I write to hide, which I fear implies, in fact I write to be found. It is irritating, your insistence on seeing through me, but then there’s delight — really, I am worth the effort? Or wait, was it all childishly easy, am I then again dismissible? Too obtuse?

How did Eurydice feel being dragged out of Hades? Was she relieved to slip back, then, leave Orpheus to be adored by the woodland creatures, the trees, the nymphs? Did she find it easier to inspire, become immortal, once she was dead? Was she the sort of girl who was always falling for musicians? How does she feel about her relatively passive role in the myth?