How Deep Is Your Ocean

The bass marches to at its pace and my heart follows the slow, relaxed rhythm.

The drums bring the ambiance. Subtle ticks of a sleepy snare. Easy cymbals swaying through the melody.

Suddenly the blares of the long agonizing notes of my life echo in my mind. The trumpet speaks the songs of my emotions as sure as I had hung them out on the line myself. Exposed wide to the expanse of the world. Bathed in the glow of the ethereal light of truth.

It's the song of the ocean cresting. The cacophony of sounds subsiding, mixing and changing into a gorgeous syncopation. A song so clear it disappears and you're lost inside.

The trumpet speaks the ideas of an artist taken away from his work, thirsty for the relief of creation. The oppression of the countless endeavors not allowed to breathe its breath. The tune of the wasted seeds of inspiration rotting in the dark behind a wall of distractions locked in a box of nothing.

The trumpet speaks triumph and regret in the same sad and happy moments. Standing alone in the dark with a smiling crowd of people. Kissing one while dreaming of the other. How could I enjoy myself so completely while being nonchalant to the pain it inflicts to others? How could I not? I rest with the pride of an unspoken apology and wish for moments to change, while praying that they never do.

The trumpet is the complexity of life. The sudden rage of calm waters threatening to take me under. Then letting me go battered but not broken. Setting me back on a course, now riddled with the debris pulled up from below.

The drums snap as if to say it was always there. It was the water that buoyed my voyage and hid the turbulence of the deep.

The bass move me forward. Steadily. Inexorably into the sunset.

(peace to legendary Miles Davis)