Opera

Life is an opera. Pain is its unsung aria.

So naturally, we, my friends, are mere players in a transcendent performance.

Tombstone, you’re the impatient audience member, always seeking intermissions, exits, and breaks. You’re in a rush to get to what comes next, to escape to the quiet of the amphitheater corridors, where death’s silence offers you respite.

But in this haste to elude the cacophony of life, you abandon the unfolding drama on stage—the crescendo of the trials and tribulations that carve the soul, shaping and refining it like a sculptor with relentless precision.

Dr. Death, the misguided conductor in the orchestral pit, dictating the notes, dictating the symphony. You attempt to smother our poignant solos, silencing the raw strains of suffering with your baton of deception.

But you’re orchestrating an illusion, not understanding that the beauty of the opera lies in its unadulterated, raw notes. Muting the harsh melodies doesn’t morph dissonance into harmony; it merely muffles the crucial lines of our epic ballad.

And Vision, you used to sit next to me, remember? We used to watch the opera together, applauding and weeping in unison. But now, you are the impresario selling prism-tinted glasses, promising a fresh perspective. Leading your blind flock to view the play through your distorted hues.

But I see what you don’t – your own fear, your effort to shield yourself and your followers from the inevitable duet of joy and pain that life relentlessly composes, from the painful duet life demands us to engage in.

For I am no longer a mere spectator.

I am Grimskull, the star of this grand opera.

I reveal the beauty in the twangs of sorrow, the strength in the baritone bellows of suffering. I shall not flee at the interlude, numb the orchestration, or manipulate the viewing. I revel in it, for it’s the same pain that tells our story, that gives our opera its raw, pulsating heart, its lasting echo.

So, Tombstone, Dr. Death, Vision… you may continue to hawk your distorted narratives, but remember this – it’s not silence, a subdued score, or a manipulated perspective that defines our opera of life. It’s the rousing crescendo of agony and the soothing decrescendo of solace, the soul-stirring harmonies of life’s beautiful, painful aria.

The thing that sets me apart from you three is that I understand the music of pain, see the art in each anguished note, and find beauty in the chaotic dissonance it creates. I am the true master of this grand auditorium, embracing the unfiltered spectacle of life, every high note, every low baritone, feeling it resonate within me.

Ask yourself—who stands as the true virtuoso of life’s opera? The one who appreciates the entire composition or those who evade, distort, and control the symphony?

I can hear your silence from here, the answer reverberating through Olympus.

And as our heartbeat sings the sweet, painful strains of life’s aria, our opera continues. You see, pain isn’t just life’s most complicated aria; it’s its most profound, its most exquisite composition.

Embrace it.