All music has its predecessor, and He it was, at the start. One note, two, crescendo to a symphony. So grand and harmonious was this first composition, and the like of it had never been heard before. But the best musician greatly desired the Conductor’s baton and began to play a most foul melody. Some of the musicians around him were thrown off by the dissonance and joined him. The Conductor perceived the musician’s designs and wrote the musician out of the symphony. A most malicious hatred arose out of the hubris in the musician’s heart, and he conspired to ruin the auditory masterpiece by interjecting his own notes. His craft was subtle; the notes appeared fair from the off but grew dark in time, and many musicians were corrupted by trickery and deceit. In but a short while, the song in major had a minor undertone, and it remained thus, even worsening, for many ages.



From the start of the symphony, the Conductor held a secret Note, even a Chord that He knew the awful musician would not be able to imitate, corrupt, or destroy. At the proper moment, when the music was ripe for such a Note, the Conductor interjected it, and there was none else to compare. A vast shudder rippled throughout the orchestra because the veiled beauty of this Note was so profound. Many musicians wept at the sound of it, yet they were unable to explain the simultaneous joy in their hearts, so paradoxical was the sound of it. Still others were offended by the Note and attempted vainly to ignore or silence it. And almost as quickly as the Note came into the symphony, it faded to silence, and the awful musician felt a relief and triumph because the Note especially grated on his ears and threatened to ruin him. But his momentary victorious bliss was shattered when the Note burst back into the melody in forte. It was then that the corrupt musician knew he would never possess the baton and make the music his own, so he redoubled his efforts to harm the melody, and even the musicians themselves. The Conductor raised His hands and the Note had primacy; at other times the awful musician had the melody so twisted that his minor key had the veneer of dominance. And this symphony battle carried on as such for a great while.



In later times, many musicians forgot the music, and even forgot they were playing; they had grown so dull from long ages of confusion. The symphony became myth and the Composer was rumored to be fable. Things considered fair proved themselves foul and the foul, fair. The state was so desirable to the awful musician that he seemed, for a time, to have the upper hand and dominance in the melody. Yet inwardly, the Composer was smiling for He knew the time for coda to the end had come. Louder than ever, the Note, and a tempo change: Allegro. Bewildered and joyous musicians took up the new yet familiar sound, playing their various instruments with renewed fervor, passing over the counterfeit notes written by that awful musician. And of that musician, what can be said? Once the most gifted player, and ruined by a single Note, humbled by his inability to copy its beauty. It was his undoing, and the sound of it drove him to torment and uselessness, and the symphony was never interrupted again. The melody became more joyful and perfect than at the start; the Conductor was loved and revered more than ever for His mastery and brilliance over the music and the usurping musician, and at the end of all things, the music was still playing, growing ever more complex and beautiful through the long ages, to forever.

(I owe a debt to Tolkien for starting this idea)