There is a strange sensation when you're making music.

For example, after fingers are gently resting on keys for a moment, the first weight dropped on the white, the one that sends the first sweet sound resonating through the piano. It triggers some part of the brain that is dormant otherwise. There is serenity in concentration, and nothing seems able to obstruct it. It's just you and the music, floating along, rising and falling through the air. The soul, the consciousness, isn't really anchored to the body at this point. It twists with the phrases in a pale violet haze, or bounces with bright orange bursts. It isn't part of the colours being painted invisibly on an oxygen canvas, but it is totally in sync with them. The only purpose of the body, the brain, is to keep the music going, until the consciousness settles slowly back into the body as the final note sinks into the air.

No longer only possessed of a subconscious, the player thinks and sees again, but for a moment, just a moment, it seems they have brushed the fabric of heaven. With other instruments it's a bit more complicated, but remains something unique. As a heavy brass instrument settles onto one's lap, fingers automatically position themselves in mother-of-pearl valves. The instrument catches the lights beamed onto the stage and bounces them back, creating a beautiful radiance. The conductor steps up, raises the baton, and lips lower to the mouthpiece. A shiver runs down the spine, both in anticipation of beginning and sensation of chill. A gust of air passes the lips to warm the instrument; count off, downbeat, breathe in, and a crowd of musicians is plunged into a whirlwind of black and white. Only quick glances up and keeping a half-gaze on the conductor. Ears prick up, listening to fellows in an effort to blend. They attune to specific sections automatically as a result of hours' group practices. Toes beat the floor; eyes flicker; fingers press and release; lungs expand quickly to let out slowly; ears strain for that cue, that beat, that melody or contrast. The mind works harder with such an instrument, and the sensation is somewhat changed. Sound rises from the bell and mingles with countless others, creating a complex masterpiece of layers for the audience to enjoy. The player is vaguely aware of this, but focus on the creation itself is all-absorbing. Well, almost. There is room for forgetting. It's more the subconscious that seperates here, having little use for the fervent concentration: It so exits to view the myriad of hues that is spreading through the room, weaving its way through air. It follows, but doesn't quite join. Rather, it becomes another spectator. It looks on in appreciation, cringing at the moments only such a personal onlooker would find something wrong with. It rejoins hastily, during the final bow, and the lack of it during the performance is just enough to wipe any distinct memories of playing from the musician's mind.

Singing... It's like an outpouring of the soul through the throat. Voice whooshes past faster than can be believed, and it's always over too soon. Colour is once again present, a sort of waterfall and river rather than individual notes, or a tightly woven tapestry. It winds in a shimmering ribbon through any room, and you don't need to think, don't need to realize that you're breathing, even. Singing... Maybe the greatest release of all. After it's over, the soul flows back serene and the colour of a fading twilight sky, and serenity remains.

There's a strange sensation when making music. It's the one that comes from touching true peace, the one of working with the medium of Paradise.