-The Red Prison
[Words to Image. This is the image that grabbed my attention today, the one which asked me to write its story. Here is my interpretation of what I see. Hope you enjoy]
He listened as the guitar string bent, bent a little more, and then held. It held him in a trance, mesmerized by how it traveled through his earphones, penetrated his drums, and quickly spread throughout his body, tantalizing his every nerve. The string released but only a little. There was a slight drop in tone and Keltian felt his body shift. Each note change controlled his movements, his mind, and his very soul. Everything he was hinged on how the artist moved his left hand. He moved it with passion. There was no need for speed here, just heart and containment. Keltian felt trapped. But this was his Red Prison, one you simply walked into and never left, despite the open door. Why would you?
Everything outside of here was pain and chaos and greed. Others forgot the wonder and love of sound they had initially enjoyed in their youth. They traded in musical explorations for debate. What progression change was just around the corner was no longer important. The outside world was too engulfed in gathering inhabitants for their side, their right side. They forgot about the power of the notes because their own voices were louder. And they loved it. Keltian despised their muffling screams. He found solace in the Red Prison, comfort in a world of tone and tenor. Let the others argue over colors, he had sound. Let them scream over dirt, he had vibes. Let them destroy everything beautiful in the name of love and peace, he would wrap his head with the music and allow it to conquer his inner being. Keltian was unchained from the dogma. His desire held flow and beat, rhythm and bridges, chorus and chords, taps and strums. They ... did not. He lost himself in better world. The world around him was going to hell and no one seemed to care. Keltian cared. He fought back in the only way he knew how, the music.
Ultimately, he was spared. His life held onto the many sounds he was born into, in a better time. The twang of his father and the synth of his mother. Together, they were both a saving grace now. Regardless of what their married sounds morphed into, he held the notes deep within himself. They were his Red Prison in a world of hate. They were the guardians of his sanity.
He momentarily pulled a muff back and listened. The world screamed at him, "WHERE DO YOU STAND?!" He quickly let it snap back and closed both eyes.
The gentle tap from the stick on the snare welcomed him back. He greeted the vibrato and thanked the reverb as it cradled him. A quick press on the muffs that cupped his mind squeezed out the hate noises, giving way to the next artist(s). Keltian refused to walk out of that door. He refused to join the rest of the world. His was much better. He accepted his life sentence and happily served his time with a song in his heart, the true keys of escape.
[Remember the Red Prison. Break free from all of the 'pause' and push 'play.' You'll feel better. 😎
🎼🥁🎸🎹🎧🎵]
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