The music was peaceful at first, I felt as if I were waltzing through an evergreen glade in May. Blissful, without a care in the world. Then the tension began to rise.
The sound of drums pummeled my earlobes. I rubbed my temples but the ache in my head would not cease.
That glade no longer seemed a place of springtime joy, but of war. I imagined a shower of arrows raining down upon the land. The violence staining the ground an alizarin red.
The cacophony was a blaspheme against music, a crime against my ears. Though as the torrent of thunderous sounds reached a crescendo the sounds began to weave together into something beautiful.
I was back in the peaceful glade again, and my mind was calm once more.
“What do you think of my music, dad?”
I smiled at my son, “It has potential.”