A Clarinet Research Paper

As the seasons change, as the leaves change, as the styles and trends change¸ something as mundane as an opinion changes. As the winds change and the earth moves, as the people grow, as the moon waxes and wanes, the number of friends you make fluctuates. The constant stability of math is being able to get even answers and graphing them, getting a set point each time. These things are more stable than people are, even when people are the inventors of such reliability. Maybe probability and combinations are something that is learned painstakingly, but there are no words to full capture the essence of a human. Similarly, maybe it can never be understood why so many tears could be shed on such a bright, sunny day. The birds are flying high …show more content…
You learn that even when people try their best, the others won’t do it if they don’t feel pressured to do it. There is: the squeak of a clarinet, badly in need of a new reed. The blaring of a trombone, one who knows not of sound moderation. The sounds of a desperately floundering flute; even when perfection should exist, humans can only improve after making mistakes. That humans, because they are humans, make many, many mistakes. With blind clarity, you walk courageously into a classroom. There are pockets of worry inside you that make contact with brightly colored bubbles in the classroom where you learn chemistry. The bubbles pop. There is a rush to get to the hole puncher. In a daydream, the glass vials fall and shatter on the floor amongst the commotion. Acid, bright fire truck red seeps through the cracks, despite the careful filling of human beings. There is a collective sigh of relief; only the teacher has worn open toed shoes. You see the flowers it has grown in the cracked pavement of where paint marks your place in P.E. The ground is burning hot in your mind, but it smells of fresh rain. You pick the flowers. Sometimes, when you offer it to the brightly colored bubbles, they absorb it. The …show more content…
There is no light emanating from anywhere. You almost trip. Monotonously you live through another day. It melds with the six others, and suddenly you are at the starting point again. You want to say good morning, but the good sticks to the roof of your mouth, like fresh peanut butter. You substitute the words you need in English and French for a language everyone assumes is yours. Flames that are flickering within extinguish. In another place deep within your body, another fire burns harshly. A blue fire, hot in theory (the hottest) and cold in sorrow. You need it when you walk out into the morning chill. Frost clings to windows and prickly grass. There are patches in the grass and marigolds and anemones grow abundantly. The bird of paradise flowers wilt. There is too much water. The sky is dark enough to allow the twinkling of stars. You remember a saying you once heard in a song. The dawn before the sun is always darkest. Test papers litter the floor. Varying grades that range from A’s to D’s line the floor sloppily. There is red pen everywhere. You move on because the ice melts, even when there is no fire. When you walk hand-in-hand with your past, present, and future,