The Real Strings of my Lives on my Violin

                 There you are floating serenely in warm superfluous calming liquid in your birth mother's womb.  You are an intact consciousness, yet not a fully developed species, just a momentary embryo, waiting to exhale your first breath in an exterior physical reality, chosen, believe it or not, by yourself.  You are being communicated to by spirit guides, who continue to persuade your intellect that when you actually arrive, on dry land, as it were, you will be responsible for remembering those keynotes in your concertos of Lives.
                  All along this road trip, one essentially calls Life, from time to time, will be the billboards of fate, dancing, singing, and sometimes ruthlessly begging for you to notice their prescence.  As  religious artifacts, or tightly strung strings on the violin, they could be called epiphanies. You don't have to give into the tinglings of humanity, the perfect tones coming from the musical instrument itself or divine intervention, although pleading out is so much easier when they're benign, rather than malignant.
                  In my own time, just around three years of age, I woke up and remembered there was purpose, responsibility and fates attached to keeping myself awake, aware, and going along with certain epiphanies, while ignoring others.  One of those early billboards came while I was evading speaking in complete sentences, giving those who cared about me, concerns.  As fate would have it, phonics, in their eyes, was the short term answer.
                 You can fight it all you want, but going along with certain programs brings calm and reassurance, to loved ones, keeping hind sights and detours from running the musical notes off the page.  In my case however, after allowing Phonics to curtail my autism, my loved ones soon bore the hind sight, of maybe, leaving me to my own mystical concerts could of spared them from the onslaught my verbosity created.  The string duet surrounding such an epiphany had taken a turn in both directions, for those who forced the initial foray of musical notes to the song, and for myself, when actually trying to play the violin concerto in whatever key it was transcribed in,  when perchance, in later years my mother ubiquitously said, I will help you, if I can, if you have any questions, but I don't want to hear any complaints.
                This meant for me, in so many words, that part of my decision to allow myself to indulge in free will, in physical reality, was when I forgot, or ran into screen doors trying to answer the phone, that I couldn't finger peck out that all too easy stanza, "Why Me". Instead, learning to accept the consequences of the musical nuances was part of the refrain that came with the conductor's baton.