The world around me is always so black and white. It’s right or it’s wrong. There’s no middle ground of gray and there’s also no color. Life is just plain and simple, but simple is boring. It’s dull and sad and unwanted. That’s why I love music. Music is the color is an otherwise blank world. I go about my day in a lull. Never really having to think much, never having to do much, not showing much emotion, but the second I step into the band room, it all changes. It’s like I was blind and suddenly I can see. I’m surrounded by great musicians and the wonderful sounds of instruments. I once stood in a world of black and white, but in the band room, I see in color. Everything makes sense. I can play my baritone and the rest of the world fades away. It’s just me and my music. I don’t feel the heat of the band room, or that gentle breeze from the fans, all I feel is the cold metal under my fingers, the smooth pearlescent keys on my valves, and the slight vibration of notes. All I see is my music, the staff, the measures, like a language that few can understand. All I hear is the sweet sway of melodies working hand in hand with harmonies, the low hum of the bass line, the sharp taps of the percussion, all creating the chill inducing songs. Everything else melts away. The people, the instruments, the stands, the sheet music, all that remains are the sounds. The sounds that sweep me up and carry me away from troubles. In music, it’s not all black and white. It’s not just right or wrong. There’s color and emotion and expression and a happy middle ground between right and wrong where everything is magical.