Life is filled with wonders: objects and landscapes and ideas that spark interest in specific people. They are unexpected; seemingly out of nowhere. As for my specific wonder, I cannot relay how my love for it evolved. I do not have highland blood coursing through my veins. My surname is not McGee, McCormick, or McConnell. And yet, I find myself yearning for the stark, comforting cry of the bagpipes.
The clarinet is my sworn instrument. Since fifth grade, I have worked on honing my skills. But, I cannot deny that the bagpipes bring me more joy. When relaxing to the How to Train Your Dragon soundtrack, it is not the clarinet that I listen for. Nay, another has captured my heart. It wears plaid and reaches for the serene blue sky. In comparison, the reeded legend cannot hope to satisfy my musical curiosity.
There is something about the pipes that fills me with wonder. The reds and greens, the cords, the drones, the sounds that invade my eardrums and set my heart to their beat. I cannot help but smile, seeing the fingers fly, creating the repetitive phrases that send my foot tapping like a drum. Yes, the exotic, rare music of bagpipes in America, which fights to be heard through the sea of synthesized tracks. The sound paints images of green hills and old stone castles rising above the waves that wash upon rocky shores. That is the sound I need. Not that of the ordinary, the common. My undaunted love is reserved for the voice of the highlands.
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