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Broken notes in the silence

There’s a moment in every musician’s life when silence weighs heavier than sound. It’s that emptiness that lingers when the notes refuse to come out, when the saxophone, my faithful battle companion, feels like nothing more than a cold piece of metal in my hands. Today is one of those days.

My fingers move, but there’s no music. My heart beats, but there’s no rhythm. I wonder if the greats ever felt like this. Coltrane, Parker, Getz… did they ever feel this small, this distant from their instrument? Or is it this very abyss that made them immortal?

Maybe music isn’t just in the perfection of our performances, in the flawless pieces we play. Maybe it’s also in the pauses, in those moments when we stop, look inside ourselves, and realize we’re human. That we’re fragile. That we’re alive.

The saxophone sits on the chair, staring at me. It seems to wait, patient, like an old friend who knows I’ll come back. Because I will come back. Music isn’t something you can abandon, even when it feels like it has abandoned you. It’s inside you. It flows through your veins, even when you can’t hear it. It’s in the nostalgia of better days, in the anger of worse ones, in that spark that makes you pick up the instrument and try again.

Today, I won’t play. Today, I’ll listen. I’ll let the world speak to me, let the wind fill the silence, let memories blend with dreams. Because maybe that’s the secret of music: you don’t always have to create it. Sometimes, you just need to let it in.

Tomorrow, I’ll return. Tomorrow, the notes will flow again, and my saxophone will come back to life. But today… today, I’ll let the silence play for me.