percussive function

love lies in those beheld, and with it, you also find love. it exists in the insignificant; in the gentle grinding of the mallet on metal keys, in the incessant rumbling of wood on the carpet, in the glistening sweat beaded on drumsticks and the bleary-eyed stares at those scores with just-too-many-notes-and-rests to count. it lies hidden in the musty scent of the paths walked by generations, the residue warmth and comfort remains dormant in its essence - in the conjoining of scrapes and blisters, in the aching wrists and forearms, walking hand-in-sticks through the hellfire suddenly makes me realise that in the places where the light is naught and the shadows deepen its reach, a glimmer of hope lay in that semicircle, where only through the loving of others can one learn to love oneself, at all