Chosen

Lowest of the Low (Part 1)

tick tick tick tick...

Was the only sound that could resonate in my room as I layed on the floor. The sound was taunting me, a firm reminder of the unachievable height. My body hurt, my face hurt, my lungs exhausted. I had been defeated, crushed, and left to die by some numerical time keeping bullshit. The sound of that metronome only spoke one word to me...

Failure...

  I raised up in a angry shout, grabbing my metronome and throwing it across my room as it hit the wall with a loud thud and the batteries coming out of their places. For now, I had escaped that ridiculous sound. I layed back down and slowly turned my head towards the cold metal object that was my French Horn. I stared at it intently, as if waiting for it to reply accorindingly. I could feel the frustration, the anxiety, and the somberness radiating from my instrument. It was a symbol of unfruitful efforts. A symbol of a failure who strives desperately for even mediocracy. A symbol of the passions and love of an individual thats wasted with their obscure and inability to perform. A symbol that clearly represented me.

I could feel my emotions bubble and compress at the edge of my throat. I wanted to cry. I wanted to lash out and break everything. I wanted to scream louder than any human could. I just wanted to be good. Is that so much to ask for? I rarely ask for anything. I always live life putting others ahead of me and the one thing that I wanna be selfish about turns out to be something I can never do. That's a sick irony God.

I finally raised off the floor and tried to compose myself before putting away my instrument and calling it a day. I can't end up being pissy and depressed before my birthday party. I know my Mom worries about my mood so, I have to make her believe I'm alright. I walked into the mirror of my bathroom and looked at myself, ultimately looking in disgust. How could someone like this be considered great? I slammed my head against the mirror as it cracked a little. I could feel the tears finally start to race down my red hot face. All I could ask myself was one thing...

Why?

Why the guy who tries to embody music in his everyday life get the short stick? Why does the guy who embraces the beauty and marvellous wonders of music end up not being able to express that emotion? It's unfair. I finally stopped crying and went back into my bedroom. I flopped onto my bed, opening my drawer and pulling out my headphones. I needed to take a nap and get out all these negative emotions. I plugged them into my phone and pulled up Spotify. I scrolled through the numerous playlist until I found the one entitled, "Garcia's Greatest." I took a deep breath and relaxed as I hit play. The first piece that envolped my ears was Luigi Cherubini's: Sonata for Horn and String Orchestra No. 2 in F Major...

The strings immediately started to pave the image developing inside my mind. I'm instantly lost in the music. I imagine a ballroom with two lone dancers, a male and female, as they await to begin their performance. Next thing I know, Garcia comes in. His sound is pure and full as the dancers begin to move. There movements are slow and gentle, reflecting Garcia's tone and the attitude of the music. I'm completely engrossed in my fake reality. Forgetting all the worries of the real world, convincing myself that the one I'm imaging is the real one. With that being said, the mood of the piece changes along with tempo as the feel becomes more bouncy. The dancers begin to move more gallantly and graciously. They're in complete sync with one another, making every move look effortless. Their every step and motion completely reflects Garcia's playing. He's ability to convey himself is astounding. The piece draws closer to the end as the music keeps driving and driving. The dancers follow suit, tossing, catching, sliding, and bowing each other to fit accordingly. The big finale comes as the dancers finish their routine with a rememberable conclusion as Garcia plays his last two notes.