To a melody played on the strings of our souls
And a rhythm that rattled us down to the bone…
In every beat of my proud corazón.
Life is but a beautiful song mi amigos, written out on the manuscript of eternity. Melody played on the strings of our souls. Telling the soul’s story, till that final note.
Music, that which invades our very soul. The tales of lives that live on through song, each soul with their songs immortalised in Arcadia’s halls.
The artist that has his life played out as an orchestral masterpiece. The piercing shrill of violins slicing their invasion into the soul like a blade cutting through flesh.
The pianist that builds note upon note with the precision of a doctor’s scalpel. Dissecting scales with a clinical, medical accuracy.
The melancholy ballad of the naysaying prophet. Sweeping melodies that speak of doom and gloom, holding a bitter sadness beneath the surface of their song.
The punchy sound of a rock anthem. Hitting power chords and shrill notes like an officer breaches doors of their suspects and fights to subdue them.
The tension-filled dramatic tone of the experimental musician. An intricate song filled with pain inducing clash chords, like the words of a preacher beckoning towards the hopes of freedom.
Canten al coro, let it be known…
In every beat of my proud corazón
Everyone has their song, an opus playing out their lives. Each musician hopes that theirs will be the tale to invade the souls of their audience.
That their song is played on eternity’s manuscript. That they live forever in legend.
But each song they play, though varying in tone and tempo, differing in style, they each follow the same pattern.
An introduction that builds the song, verses that carry the music forth and ultimately lead to the ending. The final note, which no matter how the musician writes, the final movement always draws a conclusion.
Their songs each end eventually.
I am the hand that plays those songs, and many more like them.
My fingers are upon the strings. Plucking, strumming out the notes to the inevitable eternal rest. Where your songs end, mine only begins.
Your song brings life to me, they fill my manuscript. They make up my repertoire, a never ending source of heartsong.
The strings of my guitar call out, singing their song. My proud heart feels the music.
You each play your music, amigos, open your mouth and sing out your songs. But ultimately, you’re singing to the strumming of my guitar. My hands play out your tales.
It matters not the visions in your mind nor the blood that stains your canvases. The freedom Grimskull finds in pain is as irrelevant as Cade’s investigations. When the music stops playing, you will all fall short of completing your Magnum Opus.
For mine is the music of eternity, amigos.
And it invades your very soul. With every beat of my proud corazón, my music speaks a legacy that lives forever.
Can you hear the sound invading your soul, or should I strum louder?