It begins with a pulse. A gentle steady pulse. Constant and unrelenting, like the dripping of a faucet or the beating of a heart. Then with every successive strike, it grows stronger in intensity until the sound of the throbbing echoes from wall to wall. The floor shakes. The mirror breaks. And the door swings open from the tremor. The cracks widen, the ceiling falls and the sky with its magnificence is exposed to the glorious sound of passion, emotion, love, pain, depression and hope. And everything will seem TO HAVE LIFE. Dancing, singing, shaking. Moving in an abstract pattern dictated by the invisible explosions.
Then suddenly, it dies. But slowly. Just like its intensification, its death is gradual. Wave by wave, the sound loses power. The ricocheting resonance loses momentum and becomes tamed by gravity. The last bits of dust settles, the floor becomes still, and the life from everything fades. It becomes an ordinary room again. Calm, peaceful--- but lifeless.
But the sweat, the memory, and the aftertaste of the blast will remain. The ears and eyes that witnessed the burst will always remember. It will stay in their hearts and they will continue to seek it long after its end. They will search for it: in every scream, in every roar, and in every echo. They will hunt for it like hungry wolves. And once they find it, they will never let it go again. Never.
Music. Such a beautiful disaster. Such a lovely paradox.
