Dolce (an experiment in writing about music...don't be too mean)

Dolce. That's what it reads over the staff, floating angelically in the silent space above the sound. Dolce, I almost laugh, as I curve my wrist and pluck the string with all the force and strength those silent letters try to discourage. Vibrance, beauty, magesty all flood the room, immersing it in deep bold sound. This song is so known to me that my fingers dance wildly from string to string without thought or reservation. The high notes ring out like angel's voices, full of light, and echo through the room above me, forever drifting skyward. While the lower notes spill over me like a wave breaking, vibrating through my soul and then puddling on the floor like a long velvet dress. They pulse into the wood, which holds them like a memory. I see my hands in their frantic precision and the harp peacefully still in beautiful contrast, and I know this song is the song of my life. Sweetly? How naive, for the song of life is never pure and sweet.