Little Girl and Music

I once knew a little girl who lived in the outbacks of Southeast Asia. Pretty smile she had. No mom and no dad. Little Girl loved to sing and she would sing all day in the humidity that bound most people to negativity. She sang in the humidity.

When she turned twelve, she realized that the moist air pushed down her voice. That her voice didn't matter. That every note that rang from her strong throat would only rise to the first molecule outside her mouth, then dissipate, never to be seen again.

The joy of the song was no more. She cried for a little while then she learned to live without song. She realized no one heard the music, no one knew what music was.

When she was fifteen, she heard a strange story that there were elves who could touch you in ways that made you feel music again. She longed for music again. She let the elves touch her.

It turns out the elves were evil. Their eyes glistened like silver but concealed only rusty hearts.
And so even the elven music died and she felt no joy again.

When she was eighteen, she saw a baby singing. And to her surprise, she felt tiny traces of joy as the baby's mouth moved. She began to sing with the baby. The baby looked straight at her with piercing blue eyes and they began to sing together. As they sang, the girl began to hear the music get louder.

She realized that even though the humidity of the air seemed to absorb the music, the collective sound of a persistent song became potent in the air over time. For you see, the music was never absorbed. It simply diffused, spread. And the more of it you let into the air, the stronger the sound became.

And so she sang again.