A little more credit.

If my life were music, it'd be piano music.
Soft keystrokes, loud at times, with whimsical keyboard sounds every so often.
Always keeping perfect time and steady rhythm; classical, not jazz.
Each chord seeming to make logical, perfect sense, but tinged with a growing awareness that maybe none of them do.
Steady progressions; up, then down.
You usually get what you expect, until something like this throws you.
Suddenly the music's too loud,
too soft,
too bright,
too dark,
too strange,
too scary,
too different,
and all you want to do is crush the life right out of it.
Smash the strings, burn the frame, shatter the keys.
You realize that maybe you've never understood it at all.
Maybe it's been successful in enticing you into its facade; light and airy, shallow and flushed,
Distracting you with the soft heat of a summer morning--
making you unaware of the bubbling, blistering burn.
And suddenly, for one tiny second, you really do see.
In the moment before the color leaves the flame, you expose depth and subtlety in each vibration, hushed vibrancy and shattered glass in each rhythmic chord, right before the music
stops.

Please.
Give me a little more credit.