Symphony Rising

Among the many, out of the cacophony, a symphony rising. A symphony of one.

Strong and beautiful, moving and elegant, rising and falling like the beating of a heart, like the breathing of some giant living being. For a few sacred moments, we were lucky enough to lend an ear, to hold a bow, to strike a chord, to be enveloped in the rhythm, to sing with all of our hearts.

And then the final notes are struck--they are always written in, whether we want to see them or not. Sometimes as beautiful and dashing as the rest of the movement; sometimes as dissonant chords, off beat and off time, out of place, premature. Sudden and abrupt, they linger in the air and on the walls for several moments, frozen in time, suspended in space and disbelief.

And then they fall, crashing to the ground like heavy, unrelenting rain.

And then I'm left to my own devices. Kneeling in an empty chapel, singing to the sound of my own deafening silence--the futile beating of my bleeding heart, the frantic falling of my feet, my voice, empty, hollow, breaking. My chest is open and my body aches, choking and gasping for air. Exposed and naked, desolate and alone.

What am I supposed to do with all these leftover feelings of you?
I am full of hollow echoes and empty voices--voices of the dead ringing in my head--what can I say that hasn't already been said? Poems to be read, flowers by your head... what am I supposed to do?

Burn the chapel, break the strings; it's all I can do not to scream.

And now I'm supposed to rebuild. Survive. Continue.

And the cacophony drones on, oblivious, enveloping all distinguishable sounds: no melody, no symphony, no song. A few were lucky--I was lucky--to hear what used to be. But now we hear it no more. And we never will again. Not within these walls.