I sit in a room
My cold fingers stiff on the sticky keys
Hearing only the pound of the bass
As music plays above
And wonder if the empty beat
Is a queer kind of analogy
To my life.


Maybe I am the music
A symphony of sounds and patterns
Woven together
Into something that seems
Both obvious and beautiful
Unique, flowing
A mosaic of notes and beats


It could be that I am the bass
The only part perceptible
One story below the speakers
Audible, but ugly
Senseless, alone
Missing the companion piece
That will make it more than just
The hollow pulse I hear.

I hope I am not the bass.


Above me
Whoever can hear both halves
Turns the music louder
Now I can hear the rest of the song
It is a song I do not like
Yet another pop production.

I rethink my analogy.


Maybe the music is the ugly part
The everyday cacophony
Of society
That detracts from the parts
The people
Working so hard to make it happen
To make a noise
We try to tune out

It could be that the bass
Is truly the exquisite element
Beautiful because it does not blend in
Striking because it is nonsensical
Dependable, distinct
A voice raised to be heard above the crowd
Even if the music does manage to smother it
In its mundane din



If that is the circumstance
I must hope that I am the bass