From Atmosphere to Atmosphere

It was a blazing summer day. 100-plus, the forecast claimed. Two days earlier, my sister got married. I was returning the various objects my family had rented for the occasion: Lanterns, linens, ladders, and the like. "I'm glad it wasn't this hot for the wedding," I thought to myself as I tuned the radio in my car to a Classical station. I rolled down the window to the sounds of a busy midday street. I decided otherwise, returned the window to its original position, and opted for air conditioning, to my great disdain. The fake air-ness of the cool air was better than the overt disturbance caused by racing cars. The fresh air had to wait for an evening drive. I increased the volume on the radio, imbibing the rich, deep art that is Classical music. The smooth waves of violin strings flowed through the speakers into my ears. Deep cellos strums shot their way out, too, bouncing off the corners of my car's interior. The occasional line of piccolo notes contrasted and accented the smooth strings, penetrating to the depths of my mind. 

"Why," I thought to myself, "does this music sound even purer than it had before?" I was suddenly distracted by a scene common to my hometown: a man, hunched over a round container wielding a torn rectangle of cardboard that read, "Need Money, God Bless." The energy the music's beauty had accumulated was replaced with the ring of pensive silence. My intrinsic philosophical mind found had found its way to the surface: reality. 

This experience, which took place a few days ago, is much like reading. We find a book that captivates our very being. It influences every thought. It becomes our reality. Its literary depth washes over us, blinding us to the reality that engulfs us. 

Some live for such an altered state as this. The most devout readers find themselves living their reality as if their dream is around the corner. Authors become hermits, martyrs for their personal prose. They're searching for a false reality, a getaway to their circumstances. I have found myself in such a position, my writing was the deep body of water in which my person stood. My head remained above the surface, surveying the surroundings. They displeased me. They made me want to hide. 

May the beauty of the words not be hidden by the blindness of the worker.