Triangle

It sits still , unmoving, the least bit shiny and filled with any sort of metallic cpulence. It neither shines in the early morning light, nor looks too overcasted by shadows of other objects around, for me to miss it. There it is, the triangle.1

It takes me a while to become aware of my breathing disgustingly against the ceramic wall of the store until the clerk beckons to me with a furious look. I move on autopilot never once looking away from it- the triangle which I must have-2

"What are you doing boy?" the clerk asks me.3

"How much is it?" I respond calmly.4

"Excuse me!" the scrawny woman shouts in a sudden high pitched voice. I don't understand what she means. All I want is..5

"That triangle, how much is it?" The woman stares like a baffled idiot for long moments before she seems to have deciphered my question. She looks to the triangle as well and frowns.6

"That rusty old thing?" Clearly she is not as mesmorized as me. I take it she does not have the passion of an artist as I do. She does not see the splendour in all that is the triangle. How can she not see the distinct and defined edges, vertices, and points? How can she not see the minute stick that is designed to connect to the edges of this symbolic creation, by a gentle hit from the player, from the performer? 7

"I need it, Miss, may I have it?" She replies almost immediately and that is a shame. She says, "Yea, sure, son, whatever, just get out of here."8

I move with a purpose. When my warm, delicate fingertips, so concentratedly populated with millions of nerve endings, touch this cold, rust and yet welcoming surface, I feel something, and it is surely not the contrast in texture of the outer surfaces. I must say a relationship has formed. I can do whatever it is I need my triangle to do, and it can serve a purpose through me.It shall be of use istead of being left isolated and ignored to rust in peace.9

Cumulus clouds seem like tiny specks from where I stand. Out there birds flock together as if they should form some intricate piece of puzzle produced by God. The streets bustle with people- to and fro- vehicles scream in pain as they are pushed to go too many miles in too little time. Everywhere is blurry in my peripherals, everyone is irrelevant to my being, and existance. My mood is of a contrast to my active surroundings. I am calm. I am happy. For within safe proximity is what I have a new profound interest in. My Triangle. Inside my backpack sleeps my lovely triangle.10

School is somewhat welcoming. The familiar halls are now not a devastating route to classes, but a secure and fulfilling path to success. The coded room sings to me the Accent- the longing force of a collaboration of accelerating sounds-providing a beautiful musical Accelerando. Oh, how I love music!11

I neither panic nor think twice of my decision. I push open the door, and clutching my new backpack in my arm, I declare, "I would like to join the orchestra." I can already feel the triangle in my palm. And it is a inexplicable feeling of ultimate joy.12

"Your welcome, newcomer, have your seat." I smile to my heart's content.