I dreamed the bow hair was a field of wheat

I'm on stage and the bow in my hand turns into a sheaf of wheat, every strand a hair that's been fraying for months. The audience is silent and I'm just standing there, holding it, not wanting to play because cutting into it would mean cutting the last conversation I've been having with myself. Then someone in the front row whispers, 'let it go,' and the whole field scatters into dust.