A myriad of words could define how Micael had felt when he was logically dead. His ears could not hear any of the words spoken by Jack, the crow, and his gun. He could feel the drastic pain it had ensued all throughout his nerves, and even the fact that one would have been dead if Jack would like to choose to, but was not. It appeared that Jack would rather choose to live on his own than killing Micael entirely, which, of course, led him to a dire enigma.
You're much more than just a deadly plague
Send me aquiver, for one last moment
You harness such power non-numerical for every gauge
Long live the open gates, send me in marvelous torment
And he incessantly thought of nothing more but the open gates; Micael did sharply.
The real being of his was not satisfied, neither, like he had forgotten who himself was, whether he's pertaining to Micael and Aleck. It had been weeks since then gun of Jack had made its bullet reach him, and every day was no difference. He tried to travel back to the irrelevant world, but his chants were nothing but mere circus jokes. He locked himself inside his room, where his rations were just being delivered upon by his very mother, of which all of them had agreed upon, and the things that made Micael more than just breathing was the box his mother had arranged for him, of which he never bothered to have a look-see.
Hence that day, he started to write and use his dear instruments more frequently. He could have sung something much more vibrant than Jack and Jill and be summoned into another world or dimension in such the speed, and he soon found that that it, too, worked.
He had composed a lot of writings and manuscripts to work with himself. He had written something about the sea, the caress of the winds, the birds flying across oceans, some aquatic life and his very experience from the irrelevant world. He had also written about something of which he called the Iron Maiden, which was about the very dispute of oneself and the seemingly tug of war of both past and the future, which had never discussed and concurred to transmute together.
He then made one a song, with the use of his own guitar and violin, and had the music written on a yellowish sheet of paper, which took a paper and half to finally come to its exposition. It sounded nice, too, though he was the only that could have judged it, at least inside his room.
He used the guitar as a rhythm and the violin as a melody, which was a very odd combination and using the guitar as an accompaniment was far from being ideal, but no music would perpetuate the norm that they were bad. Every music was different and the only judgment was taste, not mere hate of some sort. He looked upon his very writings, and started playing the guitar part, which was nothing different but amalgamation of strums and licks. It was in D major, and written beyond the letter was a masterpiece, and he strummed once. The resonance of the acoustic waves inside the guitar's hollow body was banging towards each other's heads, and had eventually found themselves space to dissipate around Micael's room, and eventually, to his parents'.
He kept on strumming, while imitating the violin's melody with a very accurate hums, which conformed to the fact that he was pitch perfect-ish kind of a lad. Three moons had passed until he completed his composition, and today was two past nine, where of which sent his parents' mood into cloud nine. Their bodies could feel the amplitude of the sounds hitting their very eardrums and the wavelength of which had gotten into their thoughts and subconscious being, which made them smile and started dancing upon one another, though Micael's hums were a little bit lacking of loudness, but no one had budged their shoulders and they continued. His parents' dance seemed to be graceful, though one could not really see what was by the by, let alone he could have forgotten their faces.
But there was something much more unforgettable than memoirs and poems watered like tulips, and it was the voices of his parents, which were also resonating inside his head which made him played the guitar aloud, and his humming. His strumming was also incorporated by flamenco ornaments and the thump of his thumb on the lowest string. It was melodic, periodic and yet something that would be wanted to be heard for ages and around their very horizon. He could hear everything that was coming out from his guitar and body.
The vibration, however low, which had hit his very toe with quite the resonance, the thump of his finger and the percussive sound of his flamenco strum, the flow of his blood pumping out from the cavities of his heart, and the very hum of his both beyond his mouth and behind his head, and there was no Jack and Jill or even Jack himself that had interrupted him since his very death on the other side of his being, but he knew there was something which would come, a dear voice coming from the other side of the door, of which his rations were coming hence.
Mother? Mister Harry? Amy? He did not have anything to decode the littlest of clues for which whose voice would be resonating his, this time, and sooner a voice had passed the locked door of his room of which only food had the chance to even offered the very glimpse of his dingy room, filled with a lot of manuscripts, papers, discernible compositions and some were just pure palaver of his isolated life which had touch nothing, except the air coming from the window which had caressed his body since the very beginning of his end, perhaps.
...