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No more fighting.

It seems too often now, that we argue.
A harsh exchange of words.
It seems that I am always doomed to a defeat.
Or I just give up. I don’t want to hurt anyone.
All my brain gains is pain.
So I reluctantly retreat.
Receding to my room.

To my music.
Once I slide my headphones over my ears, the world stops.
No more turning.
No more fighting.
Just the music.
I close my eyes. And begin.
Whitacre.
The sweet, tender chords caress my ears, quiet, then loud in seconds.
My heart beat slows, my muscles tense, then release.
Full of chromatic compromises,

No more fighting.
Ticheli.
My foot taps in the rapid beat as a cacophony of sounds thrash my senses.
A shift to smoother jazz tones causes my hand to beat against whatever it can find.
Course crashing cacophonies jump in and out until the resolution, until

No more fighting occurs.
A hushed slowing until total silence.
Hazo.
Starting off with an upbeat tempo, my head bobs softly. My hands tense, knowing what comes next. The horn line crashes into the soft melody. Thunderous and thoroughly threatening, a barrage of horn rips are followed feathery flowing flute melodies. They all cut out.
Two lone players appear to persistently continue their journey through the music.
A fluttering trumpet soloist flies through the notes, as a trombone takes a slower, thunderous pace. The booming battles cease for these two masters.

No more fighting for them.
The strong song ends before I even realize it. My exhausted eyes open.
Staring at the, blank ceiling.
Back into the world.
Back into the music.





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