appreciation

Sitting in the crowd, listening to poetry and music, watching plays and movies, I wonder as to what my reaction to all of it is. I just walked in from a student driven lecture session on physics derivations, into this potpourri of artistic talent. Stumbling to find a footing, I walk around, listen to the performances, try disengaging my scientific side. I sit there as the performers leave, and more take their place, and wonder why? Why are they doing this? Why is there art? Why is there music? An avid guitarist myself, I see myself in the twilight zone, the border between two explanations of life. And ever so often, I get tugged to one side, and begin to lose site of the other. But never have I been pulled so far to one side, and then immediately been so strongly reminded of the other. Sitting there, I wonder as to why all this exists, and why so many people want to be heard, and why there, at the same time, exist people sitting at home or in labs or somewhere else, figuring out something, either in their head or paper or on sand. And then, on a g-minor, it became clear. They are just both ways of looking at and dealing with the same thing. And you don't have to exclude one to appreciate the other. I had remembered marvelling at Holmes's calm transition from violion maestro to super sleuth, but never truly appreciating it. I got all happy, and excited, as I finally understood. I remember vaguely jumping, or hopping, or something silly, but this could be my imagination.

Return

You come home, from a faraway journey in search of something, and your wife smiles. You smile back, but something's different. Time has worked its charms, and things are different. You hug, and its like hugging a rock, the inherent affection is cooled and gone. You try to think of whats wrong, and you see bruises on your wife's neck. You're shocked that she cheated on you, but what can you say? You don't even know her anymore, and there exists a widening rift between you. You sigh, with an unimaginable sadness, and try hard to move forward, while moving into the past, yearning for the old times. You fail, and it hurts, you just plug yourself into the music and drown out your feelings. The next morning, before anyone wakes up, you pack your bags and leave again. Home is not here, love is not here.