Broken Chords

Broken chords,

An endearingly repetitive melody.

What are we, but music?

Curiously twisted waves,

Of thoughts birthed.

Arpeggios,

One note after the other;

Baby steps taken by the fingers

Learning to walk along the rules of melody.

Rising, falling with the direction the finger takes.

Right, for higher, sharper, younger sounds.

Left, for lower, matured, bass.

Are we truly impartial to all directions, if we unanimously assent to one's ascent?

For the beginner,

Own fingers, otherwise synchronized;

Falter miserably when trying to match another's sync.

Intertwining, slipping, twisting around one another;

In an attempt to resonate with the perfect rise and fall.

Can broken chords only be played by the broken hand?

Fingers functioning as many, not one,

Individuality of expression resonates in the echo of notes played.

The otherwise singular forced to acknowledge its multiplicity.

Is something that breaks, now infinitely flexible to create any melody it desires?

Broken chords are now free,

The fifth note can fall before the second;

The third can beat the first.

The first glance at infinity.

Yet what binds these chords into melody?

For without an underlying pattern, melody descends into chaotic cacophony.

This is where the truth comes in,

Right and left are together, but an ouroboros.

And broken chords don't have to be in abject loneliness,

To never be revisited in the melody again.

Prodded by patterns,

Even fingers remember their imprints,

And travel back to their selves;

Reliving, till the ends of melody;

The perfect pattern, the infinity.

Is something that is broken, complete within itself; or does the charactered singularity succor it?

The definitive chords,

Character dripping with each instance,

Inflexible, unyielding;

But strong,

Accompany those broken, to a create a memorable existence.

Resplendent melody,

Complete only with yin and yang together.

The whole and the broken,

Folding and unfolding within itself,

To create the endearing imprint,

That entrenches in the soul;

And plays on;

In tune with the infinity of the ouroboros.

In Picture: An excerpt from Moonlight Sonata, one of my favorite symphonies from Beethoven.