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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required IX. In the ICU, machines create their own songo— ventilator, heart monitor, IV pump— forming an accidental orchestra the clutch of machinery holding time like a hi-hat choking its own decay. Underneath the electronic rhythms the human body maintains its own stubborn organic tempo— proving that even at the edge of existence we are fundamentally musical beings. The climate protestor's chant becomes a militant clave pattern— Save our planet! Save our planet!— 3-2, then 2-3, the rhythm shifting as urgency demands variation— the drumbeat of activism learning to match the accelerating tempo of ecological collapse. X. And you—yes, you reading this— your eyes move across these lines in their own syncopated pattern saccading left to right in measures of meaning-making. Your brain creating brushed hi-hat patterns from the friction of thought against the snare drum of language. Your heart, that most faithful percussion section has been playing the same basic rock beat since before you drew first breath— occasionally throwing in jazz fills during moments of terror or ecstasy herta bursts—three quick, one slow— when joy demands irregular verbs. Sometimes slowing to ballad tempo when love finally finds the groove you didn't know you'd been keeping. What moves without memory is noise— but rhythm with ache is defiance. XI. This is what the drums have always known: existence is collaborative improvisation— we are each other’s rhythm section the paradiddle of human connection: reach out, pull back, reach out, reach out— pataflafla of overlapping voices where no one plays alone. The fundamental pattern underlying all philosophy, all theology all attempts to make sense of this beautiful, broken symphony. The single-stroke roll of days becomes the buzz roll of years becomes the eternal silence that gives meaning to all sound. But in between—in the sacred space between one beat and the next— we have this: the chance to play our part in the grand composition to add our own ghost notes to the ongoing improvisation of being human. XII. So when you wake tomorrow to the shuffle rhythm of morning routine— remember: You are both drummer and drum, both striker and struck— creating ripples in the fabric of reality with every decision, every breath every moment you choose to accent: love over fear connection over isolation rhythm over silence. The world is waiting for your solo. The count is: one, two, three, four— …. Play Ratamacue—Ratamacue— Paradiddle-diddle, Flamadiddle— ghost notes flickering between heartbeats syncopation staccatoed through lungs your hands conjuring patterns no metronome could predict. Crash cymbal of intention— splash cymbal of hope— cross stick of hesitation clutch of breath before the downbeat. Every rudiment you call out is a memory made audible— a story in the language of rhythm. Flamacue, pataflafla, herta— let impossible syllables tumble from your palms like prayers, like declarations like the secret names for joy and to be and becoming. The song is unfinished. The sticks are in your hands. You are the drum that cannot be stifled. So play— and let the world answer in ratamacues of thunder in paradiddles of rain in the space between beats where everything waits to be heard. Play on.
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