3 years.
11 months.
2 weeks.
13 days.
22 hours.
56 minutes.
33 seconds.
All in a perfect time measure. Each tick of the metronome makes it grow.
Stronger.
Louder.
Twice as powerful as the tick before. Between the high crescendos of the melody and the low arpeggios of the harmony, I stand.
A sole musician keeping in time with The Beat.
Playing a song that can only be heard by one other person. But they aren't here.
They aren't here to listen to the lonely SongBird perform the everlasting ballad of an endless moment. A timeless treasure. A manifest of sounds and blasts that would never be contained between one human being.
This song...
This Beat that swells and ebbs like a wave against the small granules of sand....
Only to be drowned out by the numerous attempts of so called "professionals."
Loud, garbled noises that are forced out of the strings from their own song.
It does not match mine.
The time signature is not in cue.
A tuning fork that constantly hums while they try to create and re-create the majestic sound that comes from my song.
The conductors of orchestras and bands slandering and abusing the precious falsettos and basses that I have created.
I laugh at them. It's amazing how a simple tune can cause such an uproar.
They will find theirs.
It takes a master to follow a Beat.
It takes a Beat to make you a master. But what do you call someone who found a Beat without becoming a master?
Me.
