Every time I would go to the opera with my parents I would hum along to the songs, quietly, barely audible in the din of shuffles, shifting, coughing, and the occasional round of applause. Even when my lovely serenade finished I would continue along with the song. Both my parents would look down from either side of me and smile gently. Then they would shift their attention back to the show, smile never wavering. This was my zone, and I sank into a peaceful oblivion, humming, bobbing my head back and forth, my eyes closed. The show was not my interest, but the music. It flows from the mouth, vibrates and radiates energy and happiness, or tearing sadness, infuriating madness, calm comfort. The mood of the singer, the artist, cannot be hidden when they are emitting their beautiful song. They are exposed in the most beautiful way, and I yearn to drink in more. I soak up the music like a dehydrated and dying child, and bask in the sunlight. The show is over, but the feeling is not, and my bliss cannot be contained. Now I am the happiest person in the world, and we return to our house. I sleep peacefully, for this is the peace-keeping, which somehow steadies the world, balances, and keeps all in equality. This is the truth, and all this keeps me going until the next time I enter that ornamented theater, slip into my seat, and all I ever wish for in my frenzied state is granted.
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