Nothing in particular

Certain rhythms pulsate, others waver and die. Yet even the bassiest of notes that rattles your rib cage and melts your marrow will not continue forever. It too will die. Quiet as dust it’ll sneak off into the horizon of noise you faintly recall and exist forever as something you might have heard. Until you die, then even those memories are gone and no noise ought to have existed at all ever. We live in a silent world, each being deaf and mute. I recall no noises from the battle of bunker hill, it was a quiet fight that one. Silent. My ears do not perk up in longing vagueness at the faint remembrance of a shot heard round the world. Nobody heard that shot, because never has a sound entered the surf. The sound waves are an empty ocean, too rocky to be explored or charted. If maps were made, if some fool ventured out into that perilous sea, then his maps were burned with his fleeting corpse but they were held by no urn. Nobody kept the charred remains of a dead sound on their mantle. If that adventurer was treated poorly, if he was done wrong, or if he treated others not as they deserved, what does it matter? He could have lived his life racked with guilt, perhaps he should have. Perhaps he did. But why? Did he recognize the very transitory nature of that emotion? Of every emotion? He exists as a species in flux, constantly changing. Coming and going like ebb and tide. But that species to which he belongs is like the powerful note casting its reverberations up and down your spine, both may be all you think about. All you want to think about, all you can. But man like that note will eventually wither and die, lost even in air. And nobody will remember, so take that note for what it is. Just a note, the only note you can know right now.