You used to hear a symphony.
The music soared in your ears, giving you a boundless feeling of happiness and innocence. You heard sunshine and fall breezes, starry skies and grains of sand. The music was constant, yes, but it was everchanging and entertaining and never drowned out what was around you.
Now, the bows that the string players carried have frayed, the reeds in the woodwinds have split, the brass are all battered and dented, and the percussionists finger's are sore and bruised. You hear barbed wire and sharp knives, ****** wounds and screams of pain. The music's drone overwhelms your senses, distracting you from your day to day. You can't think through all of this noise, the horrible retching sound of your brain. This song you made for yourself has fallen into shambles, and no matter how hard you try you can't remember the symphony you used to hear. The melody is fast and frantic, the rhythm slow and lethargic. Off-key and off-kilter.
Then one night, the cacophony stops.
One night, the music stops.
At first, you rejoice. You don't hear the sounds of suffering anymore. Your brain can breath now, and the pain you once felt slips off of you like water.
You begin to feel sad. You begin to miss the deafening roar of your own thoughts, convinced it wasn't as bad as you think it was. It was your song, after all? Why did it have to leave you? This is when the anger sets in. The bite of your words make even yourself wince as you scream into the void, "Why my music? Nobody has the right to take that away from me! It was my song, and it stung like barbed wire and cut like a sharp knife but it was mine! I get to say when it stops!"
Then you remember your role. You aren't an audience member, subject to the orchestra's whims; you are the conductor. You composed and directed this masterpiece, this wretched tune and with a wave of your hand the musicians stopped. They laid down their instruments, leaned back and prepared themselves for the silence. The silence, which was not sunshine or starry skies, nor was it ****** wounds and screams of pain. It was nothing.
It was silence.
Now you feel empty. You betrayed yourself and have to sit in silence for forever, the oppressive weight of the not-noise constricting your head and emptying your lungs.
But then the music starts up again. Slow, at first. Just the percussion, with the weak but steady thu-thump of a dying heart. Soon the rest of the band joins in. Weak, but alive, the music jumpy and peaceful. It's out of tune, yes, and the rhythm feels childish and uncoordinated, but it's your song, still playing.
It's never ending. Some days, you slump through it. Others, you skip. It sounds like storm clouds and flowers and rough seas and everything in between, and it is beautifully ugly. Disgustingly magnificent.
One day, you know that your song will end, and you are terrified of the silence, as black and as rough as charred wood. You know that all of the late nights spent bent over your desk, furiously writing the melodies, and the early mornings spent drunkenly playing an off key guitar will all be for nothing. You know nobody will hear your song except you. They will see a few measures every now and then from the way you walk, your sad smile, the glint of fire in your eye, the soft laugh you give when you're nervous, but only you will hear the glorious melodies, dismal chords, uneven tempo and quick bassline that accompanies the steady beat of your heart.
I wrote this late at night and it turned out to be a lot longer than I thought it was. I imagined myself reading this out loud, so it may sound a little clunky written down.