She is quiet, unassuming, sometimes more shadow than substance. Why don't you talk more, her friends say. Why don't you speak louder. In response, she will just smile, shyly.
But while she may be quiet, her mind is filled with music.
The rumble of background conversation, the clinking of cutlery, the smattering of laughter, the rhythmic thuds of footsteps, the howling of the wind, the patter of raindrops against window panes, the creaking of floorboards, the crackling of fire, the clatter of pennies - noise, perhaps, to most. But to Gemini, it is as if the whole world is an orchestra, playing one, continuous, entire, unending symphony.
Often, she sits in front of the piano, seeking to find something, some way of expressing how she feels. Words are not enough - a paltry sound, uttered insincerely from lips, meaningless in itself. No, it is melodies that she needs, melodies and harmonies. One cannot lie through music, for music is something that comes straight from soul, a conversation between two spirits.
When she is sorrowful, she needs the somber tones of the cello. When she is happy, only the cheery piccolo can convey her joy. When she is angry, it is the trumpet she needs, blasting out her displeasure. When she is hopeful, it is the violin she needs, sweet and sentimental.
It is difficult, for her, to talk to others. For such would necessitate the translation of tune and song to mere words, bare and unadorned. How can she convey such depths?
Most would not understand. Some do - the poets, afflicted with the same gift.
But with the others, she stays silent. What is silence, but another form of music?
But while she may be quiet, her mind is filled with music.
The rumble of background conversation, the clinking of cutlery, the smattering of laughter, the rhythmic thuds of footsteps, the howling of the wind, the patter of raindrops against window panes, the creaking of floorboards, the crackling of fire, the clatter of pennies - noise, perhaps, to most. But to Gemini, it is as if the whole world is an orchestra, playing one, continuous, entire, unending symphony.
Often, she sits in front of the piano, seeking to find something, some way of expressing how she feels. Words are not enough - a paltry sound, uttered insincerely from lips, meaningless in itself. No, it is melodies that she needs, melodies and harmonies. One cannot lie through music, for music is something that comes straight from soul, a conversation between two spirits.
When she is sorrowful, she needs the somber tones of the cello. When she is happy, only the cheery piccolo can convey her joy. When she is angry, it is the trumpet she needs, blasting out her displeasure. When she is hopeful, it is the violin she needs, sweet and sentimental.
It is difficult, for her, to talk to others. For such would necessitate the translation of tune and song to mere words, bare and unadorned. How can she convey such depths?
Most would not understand. Some do - the poets, afflicted with the same gift.
But with the others, she stays silent. What is silence, but another form of music?
Bio by Tar #1249086