Before the storm of Five Eight, there is Dissonance. Look at dissonance… it’s noise, rampant with the echo of everyday life. Cold, distant. It is the father’s unfathomable voice, the grind of employment, the fear, the pain, but still… faintly…. there is music that makes up the foundation of the senseless noise. Enter Five Eight. It’s angry. It’s bitter. And its militant. It is the anthem of skepticism. Of reluctance, and nonconformity. It’s being 17, and having read a couple books. It’s the ego, the livid arrogance of being young. Then into Taylor. It’s losing. It’s losing without knowing why. Without having a chance to have a say. Without having the luxury of immediately knowing the answer. They’re gone…. and there’s no chance of bringing them back to you… and you feel helpless, hopeless. Stuck in a never ending cycle of lethargy and fatigue… disgusted by everything you see because none of those things can make you any less of what you truly are at the core: a loser. But in your fatigue and your selfishness, there is a color. It’s human, and it’s new. It’s so beautiful, and it seems like it’s all you’ll ever need. It’s love. The color is in your life. It’s before your eyes, and it finally seems that amidst the terror, the horror, and the confusion of your younger years, there’s at least a chance for a fresh start. And it’s a good thing that you can never let go of… amidst a new era of confusion and little esteem. But this color isn’t fleeting this time. From that, trust grows and love grows. Here, you can finally stay awhile. What if you could lose it again, though? How do you deal with that paranoia? How do you attempt to take a foothold in a world that gives you nothing to stand on? How are you supposed to go on when at any moment everything could fall back into the void? It seems it’s already happened so many times. What do you do; what can you do? You try that thing that so many people in your life have done… you try talking to God. You’re lonely, broken, but hopeful. You know that this whole life thing is too much for one man (even if it isn’t), so you ask for a hand. But you have terms… Whatever God is out there doesn’t seem like he’s been too friendly, so you’ve gotta come to an agreement. Maybe pain can stick around, but keep the color. “I need the color. I’ve tried talking to you before but where has that gotten me? This is my life, and I want to be your friend. Can we try that? Can I have something for the crucible?” Whether you like it or not, it seems like God listened. Because you still have color. And now you have something else… something even more beautiful. You’ve got a child. You’ve got a life to care for. Her name is Ayla. To raise up and send into the world that broke you so many times. But she’s different… she’s stronger than you ever were. She’s got more of her mother in her than she has you in her… makes her that much more beautiful. But you’re her superhero… her stability. Through pain, through age, through light and dark, she sticks to you like glue. And you couldn’t imagine a world without her. A family of color… your child. It’s a life you’ve wanted for so long… but didn’t realize, until now, how much you needed it. For now, you can say Thank you. Maybe it’s a prayer, maybe it’s just good old fashioned rational thought. But you look at your world; your past, and you say “Please and Thank you.” Thank you again. And again, and again, and again. For all the horrible, there is a million good things, and you finally realize it pays more to be joyful than miserable. Misery and intelligence don’t go hand and hand. But there’s always please… the wish…. the hope. “Keep the color, let Ayla be happier and wiser than I was, don’t let me forget where I came from, or forget what I have to say thank you for. Don’t forget.” So you don’t forget. You never forget. Even when the sounds of dissonance return, ever sinister, they are in a new form to you. It is a form you can handle, because it puts you at peace for a while, as you watch the cycle of life turn for so many around you: Dissonance has become Closure.