The little drummer boy was created to drum.
And every beat in his heart would run out through his fingers and thumbs.
With a metronome through his bones and with a sound of his own, the little drummer boy was sure to be a name that was known.
First name Tom, second name Tom.
He knew he was different.
Not insignificant, nor noticeably brilliant, although may be lacking resilience.
Something inside of him knew he was different from the millions.
From the way he would put his hi-hat on as he walked out the door, to the way that he knew there was more than sight to be explored, to the way he would always keep both pedals on the floor.
Something inside of him knew, he was made to make noise.
But the little drummer boy had a problem.
He lacked true purpose.
Often he wondered if the sound he made was worth it, let alone receive the attention to become birthed, until one day he decided his sound would never become heard.
That the risk of a note out of place was not worth it even for the chance to be great.
So he’d hold back and he’d be guaranteed to never let failure be his fate.
But it hadn’t always been like this. He’d been one to over-think it.
And it was all because of the string kids.
See the string kids, they thought they were wired to be the tyrants.
Although not bigger, violent violas and violins seemed to silence his inner fire like hydrants, until one day he decided, they were right.
He’d be quiet.
He was a drummer, not one for the drama.
So he would let their noise bring down his own until he started to feel hopeless.Fretting through the moments that were once his highest because now, they had become his lowest.
Until he was ready to let himself become unnoticed.
All because they were jealous of his talent.
Others would lack it and thought they had to have it to cause havoc, while he had it and would use it to create magic as a habit, but he no longer felt like an inhabitant in his own orchestra.
And every sound that everyone else made from then on, to him sounded so orchestrated.
But that was until he met little miss pianist.
Who skipped past elegantly, playing her favourite melody, about how everything is meant to be.
How we’re all a part of something greater and sometimes that’s further than what we can see.
And from the second he saw her, he instantly had an epiphany.
Implicitly, he promised he’d write her a symphony, to the best of his ability, with all his creativity and it’d have everything she’d ever need, right down to the last timpani.
And she loved it.
He would start to tell her she had the keys to his heart, but it didn’t feel dangerous, because she knew how to scale back his minors until all he saw were his majors.
And he would tell her each one of his hidden dreams and driven vivid visions from his inner musician to his outer ambitions, because she would listen.
And when he would swing, she would swing with him. And on the good they would reminisce and every joke that she told, he was always there ready with the "ba-dom-tisch".
And they would play together. They no longer felt confined, instead they would shine as their rhythms aligned, and whenever they would play he would always be in time because, he felt amazing.
So from then on, the drummer boy was never known as little. He was loud.
Not because he was obnoxious, but because he had found his voice and he was proud.
She had let him know he was something special; and to something so much greater, he was so, instrumental.
And each cymbal he crashed became a symbol for how he had once crashed, but landed beautifully.
Because the drummer boy had a talent, and he would use it.
All because of the girl that came along and showed him music.
• By Christian Tucker, Year 13, John McGlashan College
