16: Iron Man
There’s a sensation when the spirit feels just right. It doesn’t quite have a name, this feeling, but it’s in there. Packed away.
We hide it. Maybe we’re afraid of it. Maybe it doesn’t quite make sense to our ideas of logic and reason, maybe it doesn’t quite fit our concept of the palpable and the tangible. It’s the unknown space filled with blood and plasma and chemistry and electricity, the area we don’t explore, the blathering soul.
A man sits down at a piano. He’s not particularly adept at playing the piano. In fact, he probably doesn’t even know how to read a single note. Just look at him. He stares and stares and stares at the keys, afraid to hit the wrong one. His elbows are locked in place, like a string fed behind his back ties them together. Fingers twitching. A tune in the skull. A song in the mind. A hot kettle waiting to whistle but the burner is on just a little too low.
Just snap the string, dammit. Press something.
And when he does. If he does. If he lets it happen. If he trusts that thing he’s not supposed to trust. Shake it off. Shake off the voices, the bubble bursters, the bleating of the self-appointed Houyhnhnm. One note. Just one note. And another. And then, another.
Wait for it. Let those notes softly brush away the voices, and wait for it. Don’t give up. Just wait for it.
And after a while… do you hear that? Here they come. The others. The others just like you but nothing like you but just like you. Another instrument, another dream, another song, supporting, intertwining, lifting. You’re playing in a symphony only heard by those who play along with you.
Open your ears, dammit, they’re playing all around you.
Music by: Brad Sucks »