The Beat From My Heart (Prologue)

A story of color and rhythm.

The city was grey and I sat alone.

That was it, really. Day after passing day, that one single statement could sum up all the monotony. The city lacked life. It lacked emotion. Cut and paste streets with barely a splash of color. Rigid schedules for every citizen, marching through to place to place like soldiers without morale. Ants in an anthill, day in, day out.

Yet, I knew it was there, that life. I could feel it rumble beneath the grey blanket that embraced this city. Maybe I glimpsed it in a flicker of a glance from a passing stranger, beneath the lifeless poker face they held in public. Or perhaps that bare bones grin that was given to me in just another random shop for another random coffee. Flashes of hope. A wanting to live that only was smothered beneath the oppressive mood of this city.

The feeling wasn’t forced. It wasn’t brought upon law. It was just a gaping hole that had culminated over the years to become a sucking vortex. The dull system that brought on the despair was the pinnacle of efficiency, but I couldn’t be the only one who saw it as a restraint. The hope, the life, the emotion, the energy… maybe they were all meaningless words, but they were there. If only people could see…

…but maybe they could. Perhaps there was a way to ignite it.

Something clicked in me then.  It wasn’t an idea. No, it was more like an urge, one that was volatile with its creation but already beginning to morph into something more. Something  grander. The question now was if I would follow this new calling or stay there on that bench, letting the expressionless sea of faces continue to walk past me. Would I just pass it off as some silly glimmer of unhindered emotion, or let it paint a new path before me? I think I knew the answer.

Like the first beat that would only lead the way to a rising tempo, I glided from my seat out into the crowd. My stride held purpose as my feet led the way, my mind only just forming what my destination could possibly be. I swear I could see the shocked faces flash by as I marched on ahead with a bouncing rhythm in my step, expressing an attitude that had long been absent to their eyes.

Soon enough, the way parted before me, and my fast paced walk soon became a jog. That beat I first felt now gained strength, starting to build as I let myself move. It pulsed through my veins and thumped in my chest, waiting to be unleashed.

On and on I went, my eyes always vigilant. Soon, a corner store with its sign barely signifying it was even open amongst the layer of grime that graced the windows came in sight, and I entered without hesitation. It was dark and lifeless, lacking of any people except the owner who only peered at me with suspicion. It didn’t hinder me in the slightest. I knew what I was here for.

Minutes passed, and yet that tempo did not wane in me. It was still driving strong, flourishing into a more complex pattern of emotion. Yet where was it? Paint, paint, paint, paint… who deemed it such a challenge to find paint in this colorless city?

There, finally, in a dusty corner, seemingly untouched for maybe years. I grabbed one can, two cans, pretty much every single one available to me along with a brush or two. Up I went to the counter with it all, and without a word, the money was passed and I was out the door, staggered beneath my heavy load.

Yet I still strode on, my spirits high and my determination solid. Many a queer glance was thrown my way, but most opted to simply ignore the stranger with his strange objects.

It was only then my racing mind created the last bits of this nearly purposeless quest. I needed a canvas.

Varying shades of grey and gloom passed by me as I scoured the streets, trying to find it. It was the search of a century, trying to discover that proper spot. It had to be somewhere where many an eye would land and an idea to form.

And there it was. Before I knew it, I stood before my random destination. A high, blank wall, devoid of anything except for the white, brick-like pattern it held.

A cap was unscrewed and a brush wielded. The people passing by barely gave me the time of day as I stared at the wall, can in one hand, tool in the other. The beat had paused for a moment, and a sort of fright overtook me. What was I to do now? I’d come this far, but now I was left with nothing but a blank idea.

However, the rhythm returned to me like a crashing wave, and my hand began to move as I was enlightened.

The brush was dipped, and soon wide strokes of color were beginning to form. More cans were opened, and soon a rainbow was at my disposal as I swiped away at that blank wall, one of many in this city. Yet it wouldn’t be like that for much longer. It would have a significance that would only come to light much later.

Soon, figures began to form and familiar ones at that. By now, people were actually stuttering in step as they glanced, barely breaking the usual pattern of their day to day journey along the streets. Some even paused now as they watched me, the rebel, the painter, the spark that was now making his mark.

That tempo that’d been my leading light through this whole ordeal still grew stronger, forming into a crescendo as my hand flicked twice more, finishing my work. It wasn’t a piece of art, or even really a painting. It was two words, ones unearthed from some unknown corner of my consciousness but still reflected the haphazardness of the clashing emotions in my head and soul. Yet they seemed to hold meaning, as if destined to bring something to light, to lead it on and give it a greater purpose.

Mylo Xyloto

Author's Note

This came from a sudden burst of inspiration due to listening to the album already title-dropped within the narrative. A story has been forming in my mind for awhile now that corresponds with the music, and I felt I shouldn't pass the opportunity. I have every intention to continue on with this new idea, but it might take some time. Feedback would be appreciated.

Mylo Xyloto © Coldplay