Outside the stream of consciousness, or within it for the first time? Life, existence, experience all manifest as music. My essence begins as a well ordered dance. Sometimes the waltz, and then the mazurka–a fluid, flowing fidelity. As time progresses, so the time changes. A 6|8 begins to rock me, lull me. Then the pace quickens into a jubilant jig. The air itself gyrates and jostles, while the reel resonates. The melody slows, becomes minor, and soft. The violin begins to gently sob. It softly laments with the throb of the rhythm, now in 4. The violin’s pitch escalates as sorrow swells up within. Higher, heavier, the music weeps and wails. I cannot bear it as every fiber of my being mourns with each remorseful flourish.

Underneath, an organ begins to bellow. Deep, ominous notes swell under the violin in attempts to consume it. The violin gives a final, frantic flourish and is gone. The organ performs a scattered, scathing scherzo in unfathomably deep registers. The melody mounts and is joined by unworldly harmonies. Madness, vindictive madness is in the song. I struggle against it as it continues burrowing into my soul. I loathe the organ, disdain it, yet in spite of my belligerence, I am succumbing. Just before I am lost in the intonation of insanity, I rip my being with a defiant scream.

A sudden stop.

I am in a dimly lit room in a red, velvet chair. Bluesy jazz radiates likes a sauna. Within the darkness of the room, the organ continues a chilling chorus fighting to snuff out the smooth sax and crooning clarinet. But I am in control here. It is within my power to maintain sanity and sanctum. So I thought. As my guard begins to fall, the syncopation of soul becomes dissonant. Trumpet, woodwind, and all manner of brass rush in off queue. The brash brass clash and thrash at my fragile being.

I try to tune them out, rationalize the parts, decipher the chaos, but to no avail. The beat is droning, the angst building, the malice mounting. I am losing myself in the dissonance. The chorus crescendos into the cacophony of chaos: climbing, clawing, Crushing, Conquering,

CAESURA!

silence

Silence?          …silence…

I am paralyzed. All is dark, void, silent. I yearn for the return of the chaotic symphony; it would be better than numb, immobilizing, silence. In the midst of my utter despair, a sudden ray warms me. The pallid beam is mere microns in breadth as it radiates. Then, a faint sound. A note. An ‘A’? Yes, an ‘A’. I struggle with my being to mimic the sound. I manage to hum the ‘A’.

The sound moves closer as I hum in unison. Closer; an ‘A’ chord. Closer; A minor. The sound is a harp, which strums an A minor chord. Light filters in as the harp gently sings. The harps flutters and flits in fine fashion, freeing my fear as feeling returns to me. Cadenzas cascade into my conscience; soothing Psalters sweep my psyche and scoop me up from suffocating solitude.

The harp now floats upward. An organ begins again, but instead of malicious melodies, it rings out grandiose fourth and fifths in parallel, strengthening the hallelujahs of the harp. How thunderous and sure is the organ’s progression, as a mighty fortress for my soul. I am ascending after the harp. Scarcely above ground, scattered, frantic tritones peck against the bulwark of organ in an attempt to drag me back down. I pause in nostalgic dread of the prior cacophony as the harp continues upward, The harp pauses, and I look up to it with the gaze of the helpless prey trapped in the corner. With that look, from behind the harp, resounds a powerful chord from a steel guitar. It rips the very atoms of the air with protective wrath. The organ and harp cease, while the echoes of the chord dissolve the tritones. The organ resumes in a triplet of progressive, circling fifths, and the harp dances delicately as we ascend.

Ascending, ascending, transcending. I can feel my being rising out of time and space to a higher plane–the highest plane. The harp disappears, though the sound still lingers. The space, though it is not space, is wisping and white. Not white, pure. I feel no fear, only ease and comfort. A being approaches through the swirls of mist. The being is dressed in a snow white tux: white tie, white shoes. I perceive the being’s face, yet the features are both unmemorable and wholly familiar.

The being smiles. I melt, within my being, into a perfect pool of still water. The being takes my hand gently and guides me a few steps into the fog of purity around us. We are now before a piano. The piano is white, with all 88 keys being white; it has both iridescence and translucence about it. The being flips coat tails, sits at the white bench, turns to smile once more, and begins to play.

I am undone. Sweet, savory sounds drip from every note of every chord. The melody is sad, then joyous, fierce, then subtle, passive, then passionate. My soul is raptured. Inexplicable sublimity and ethereal peace wash over me like a spring day’s warm breeze. I am satisfied, deeply satisfied with the movement and hunger for it. The venerable virtuoso at the master of all instruments, then stops. I am still transfixed as a gaze of empathy meets mine. Epiphany. Complete, absolute comprehension seizes me. What I had drank deeply with my ears is an excerpt from my symphony: the opus of my existence. This being before me was the Musician, Composer, and Conductor. I reciprocate the Musician’s gaze with perplexity as I yield my copy of the piece.

The copy is battered. There are markings made by myself and others, coffee stains, rain damage, tears, and all other manner of wear distorting and obscuring the work. The Musician still smiles, but with pained eyes. Suddenly, we are surrounded by innumerable shelves containing identical binders. I perceive that each binder is the opus of a human’s existence. Numerous works are complete, others are empty, awaiting creation. We are before a section noted as “Under Arrangement”. Here, the Composer grabs one of the identical binders, opens it, and reveals the original copy of my opus.

As I pour over every detail, I see the beauty of the original, intended performance of my masterpiece. As I turn to another page, the Composer gentle shuts the binder; the unviewed movement was yet to be performed. Tears of gratitude stream from my face; a smile of pride sweeps across the Composer’s face. The Composer-Musician with a kiss on my forehead, begins to conduct a fluid 4. I begin to descend back into time and space. It is said that “art is how we decorate space, and music is how we decorate time”. Having been outside both, I can attest that art and music transcend those bounds.

As I descend back to consciousness, I watch the happiness of the Conductor; which, has not turned back with my descent, nor ever will, as the symphony of my being echoes back into time. Even now, I feel the Conductor conducting against the cacophony; guiding me back toward that grand concert hall.

I am the bird in the center of a tessellating flock of thousands. I am swept along by the whim of outer ranks I cannot see. The sweeping dance of the whole flock at the core feels like a ceaseless swelling of cruel, winter tides. I cannot see the sky around, nor the direction of the flock, nor possess the knowledge of the next turn of the quickening reel of chaos. I try to think, but all I hear is the deafening cacophony of chirps. I grow impatient at the axis of this migratory flock in my life. Unable to see ahead, think forward, or fully comprehend the vacillations at present, I weary. Slowing the beat of my wings, praying for the next breath of sustaining wind, I continue flapping blindly with the flock.