Again, the medium channelling her every experience and dream, positive, negative and optimistic, fell silent. She sighed, holding the familiar shape close to her chest like a pet, and listened and felt and focused, hoping for enlightenment to return in full, glorious bliss and lead her to the plateau that stood between mortality and something revered closer to a god with the simple but reliable method, the likes of which alchemists had struggled in vain to decipher for thousands of years of wasted opportunities. The sounds had scarcely changed since first entering her hypnotic state an unknown number of minutes prior. Waves were still ascending the beach, perhaps gaining a few more inches of ground, which was key to their military strategy. Wind still battered the rocks, whipping sand up into plumes and clouds that stung her exposed arms with their onslaught. The day was a fraction closer to breaking; she sensed it and she knew.

If her emotions and outlook on recent events had a melody, how would it go? What was their rhythm? Which scales and key signatures did they submit their will to? And as the dependant friend in her arms judged most importantly, what chords summarised her soul to the point where they implanted the image of her face into the minds of all those who listened closely enough to the levels?

She didn’t hear the answer in her head, in contrast to her initial hopes, but she began to blindly deduce and estimate her path out of the mental block to the best of her ability, developing a feel for her auditory surroundings, guided solely by her skilled and masterly hands. Her quest for release began with a swing-beat arpeggio of an open major chord, her pick gently striking each string as the notes climbed higher, peaked, and floated down through the atmosphere like a weightless flake of snow to the root beneath her feet. The pulse, the beat, the rhythm; it held her captive and fixed her concentration with mesmerising powers, every vital process in her body altering in syncopated synchronisation and bending to fit the will of the always omnipotent meter.

The chord changed and it spoke of hopelessness and surrender and of throwing down her weapons in the struggle to ward off invading forces of depression and apathy, allowing them to rule her, the transition setting the tone and mood for the rest of her song. Her brow twinged; she was onto something with this progression. She experimented with a brief flourish and harmonic segue between triads. It felt close to correct, but the structure of the bar went somewhat awry when compared against the shape of the lyrics as she pictured them in her head. She didn’t stop playing, making note of the falter without breaking stride and shifting her attention to the next upcoming bars. Exchanging arpeggios for a heavy, nylon crash on the key-change, the notes descending in true alternative-metal style after six strong down-strokes from the pick and returning to the root position after six more.