Gifted

His favorite band, it went without saying, was Tool. Alternative heavy metal prog rock, however their music was labeled, it was truly defied any classification. Although they were not the only band he listened to, they dominated his ipod, his car’s CD player, and his home stereo system. Those four guy really cared about their music. They took the utmost devotion to perfecting their work, not only the songs but the album artwork, the live shows, and the videos were masterpieces. Their artistic output dealt with every face of the human experience, happiness to sadness, life and death, grace and despair. Their focused expression of spirituality, emotion, and creativity hit like a kick to the temple.
The day it first happened he was standing on the train platform, he rocked back and forth on his heels. It was warm for an early February morning, and his jacket was unzipped. His ipod was screwed into his ears and he turned to his left as everyone looked up and stepped closer to the edge of the platform. Watching the train approach, he smiled as his favorite song Tool song began. Stinkfist from the album Aenima. The twanging guitar that started the song melted into feedback as he stepped onto the train, and he grinned as they jumped into the song with feet first, guitars and drums slamming into life. He sat down in the first empty seat, bobbing his head as the lyrics began, singing softly to himself. “Something has to change. Undeniable dilemma. Burden’s not a burden anyone should bear. Constant over stimulation numbs me and I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s not enough. I need more. Nothing seems to satisfy. I don’t want it. I just need it. To feel, to breathe, to know I’m alive. ” He grinned and looked around. Everyone in the train was wincing and holding their ears, looking around in confusion. He stopped singing to himself and reached up, taking the headphones out of his ears. Stinkfist didn’t fade away. It got louder, everyone was looking around wildly. He stared at ipod in his hand and shut it off. Stinkfist echoed through the train, and he mouthed the lyrics until they faded away with the end of the song. “Relax, turn around, and take my hand.”
So it happened when he went into the office that morning, into the pizza place for lunch, back on the train, walking into the front door of his house. Stinkfist was now his entrance music no matter where he went. The guitars and feedback announced his arrival, and drums slammed into life as soon as he stepped through any door. The music emanated from the air itself, shaking windows in their frames and knocking pictures off the walls. Everyone at work was used to it now, it only startled any new hires or visitors. He had a whole train car to himself on the ride to work. By concentrating he could make the song fade out within a minute, but he could never cut it shorter than the feedback and the slamming entrance of the drums. It announced his presence to the world.