I didn't hear the whispers at first. Only noise. Collaborating notes which scaled themselves to and fro, chasing and being chased by tempo. I didn't hear the whispers. At first. Until my ears opened my eyes. Then, I heard the composer whispering. About a field, or a friend, or a love. I heard the musicians whispering about celebrations, and traumas, and ecstasies. I heard the conductor whispering about every emotion carried on every string, in every breath, every ring of every bell, every crash of every cymbal. Silently, I heard the audience whisper. Sharing moments in their hearts of laughter and tears only they knew about. I heard the whispering. I was whispering too. The sound was no longer noise. But it became more than music. It was a story, or a painting, or a person. It belonged to me, and the person next to me, and in front, and ten rows back. It belonged to the musician, and the conductor, and the composer. And it wasn't whispering at all. It was shouting. Not coy, or shy, or afraid. It was free, and released, and unabashed. Teaching perhaps, that the only time to whisper, is when you are afraid to be heard. It never did whisper, at first.

I just needed to let myself hear it.