The music ended, but something else had just begun. Stepping outside the concert hall, the night air hit me, charged, alive. A symphony written a hundred years ago still humming in my chest, rearranging something inside me.
The composer—long gone.
The musicians—silent now.
And yet, the energy remained, moving through me like a current. Creativity doesn’t die. It lingers, waits, finds new hands, new hearts.
I had walked in as an observer. I walked out as a carrier.
This is how it spreads. A spark from one mind, crossing time, igniting another. The notes, the silence between them, the weight of something bigger than sound—it all slips into the bloodstream, unseen, unstoppable.
You don’t choose to be moved. It chooses you. And once it does, there’s only one thing left: to dance with it.
To carry it forward.
