Tiny bells. Tinkling.
Gentle melodies from a carillons à musique lull the mind into a false sense of tranquillity. Hastily broken by the overwhelming clash of cymbals.
The violent beating of drums.
Safe havens are disturbed momentarily as the adjustment for increased sound takes place. Eardrums scramble to understand the complexity of this transformation. Sight is heightened by the devastating resonance of grandiose melody.
She stares at the multicoloured image of a dapper fox embracing his companion. It is an eerie, surreal sight, misplaced in the monochrome winter light. She pauses for a cerebral contemplation of surroundings. Fails in this endeavour to connect the sound with her vision. She leaves having only emotionalised what should only be considered a minor occurrence in her idyllic life.
Despite her departure the music remains grasping onto the fibres of her being. Her soul is encapsulated by the moment. The dramatic transition from peace to war within a single beat infiltrates her being. She cannot seize the meaning of what she felt. What she still feels. Yet she retains an almost iron fisted hold onto her experience, aware of its importance. She believes it has the potential to unravel its mystery given the appropriate time to articulate itself.
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