I’ve been frustratingly moody lately.
This afternoon I took the scenic walk around my apartment, avoiding the sketchy typicity of my alley. I didn’t have much of a view anyway, now that I think about it. The brick buildings appeared blanketed under a levitating blur of heat. And the midday exposure posed a challenge for my eyesight all the same. Blind and burning, I was sure the only logic for my casual excursion was the distant sound of a violin.
The result of its bow strike seemed to ignite my imagination, a dreary vibration that reeled me into a warm daydream of a motion picture. I walked toward the sound.
I let my curiosities overrule assumptions that Starbucks was the culprit of this trumpeting somberness. As I peered over the lining of my mask, I spotted a pink poster as hot as the sun that read ‘Venmo Violin-guy’ in bold black marker. Next to it, a small, grey-haired man performed flawlessly, wearing likely every article of clothing he owned. He played under his flannel as his chin lay rested. On the instrument, he closed his eyes to the sky with a grin that exuded a peacefulness.
I slowly turned the corner, mystified by his music. And suddenly, it was hard to breathe. My throat reduced to the width of sliver. I gasped, reluctantly swallowing what seemed to be both sweat and tears. Goddamnit, I was crying. Again. An overwhelming appreciation for talent and an electric shock of empathy took my breath.
I considered turning around to listen to the muse a moment longer but continued home with the hope that I’d hear him again. My abrupt display of emotion rolled into a calm reflection and a realization that The Violin Guy has made it notably easy to send my gratitude and encore contribution.