Nature's Orchestra

Running in circles is what my head seems to be doing right now. My pulse seems to be exhilaratingly overwhelmed in so many distracting ways that it even feels that my breath is being lost on the sea of inner continuance. I know not what I seek to highly. The only thing I know is that this is not just temporary, just prolonged. There seems to be a variation of sound (Nicanor Zableta) and a distant humming believed to be that of the dead and ceased. What I think is a beautiful black piano delivering my end becomes a dead violin only heard by the crowd of fortune. The deep sea collapse in between figures only the sound of screams, those of the water itself, only not being more like water or less like so. The romancing tones of the wild forest, with the wind being the director of the orchestra, moves the pine trees up and about, left and right, with the tone only known to the mother nature. Everything gets quieter and quieter, until I hear nothing. Quiet is all there is, but, in a manor of seconds, death rises once more producing the sound which had ceased earlier, only still in a quiet way. Strange is a sound known to be quiet, I can assure you. You fall in love once more with the rising quiet and then tear drops from the sky make a sound, like a solemn piano, with each heart break and each oddity known to it. The trees begin once more to play the soft tune to which it dances to, screaming and waling like a traumatized violin. Ode to the Living Sufferers and the Dead Peaceful, is it not so? Shrieks of the howling masters who suffer are among us now. Can you not hear the fulfillment of dreams so sinister? They are represented thunders only not so. The shrilling sound is filling your every nightmare with white so catastrophic that there seems to be no use for the fear anymore, so to speak. The voices of those yet-to-be are heard for miles and miles beyond singing all as one and nothing higher. No one can understand what it is they try to say, but, none the less, they listen, and closely. They find the art of the dramatic to be fascinating and largely accommodating, but few realize that these are crying out for their lives as yet they don’t have. Collective and beautiful as they come to be, they have no life of their own as they are yet-to-be and many for a long time. When they are to-be, though, they will not remember ever having been yet-to-be and thus their knowledge of our world will be as limited as the living was to them before. Run away while you can, my child, as this place is why they suffer those among us and the reason for the suffering before us. This is nature’s orchestra. This is the reason we die those who bare the aspects of humans. We all fall to the deepest sleep and then the stars bid us a good night with the falling of the sky and the harp of the night.