Lost In Translation

Splashes of freshness drench his insides, sprinkling his eyelashes, as he gulps down from the water fountain cornering his cubicle. The high notes from last nights jam session still ring in his ears continuing the recital for the upcoming concert. As much as he attempts to concentrate on the production, his mind waivers yet again and he falls back in the pit of despair. Presentations, meetings, discussions.. nothing seem to take his mind of off what he's in search for. Even though his perfection seems likes he is only born to strum, the streak of magic seems to be amiss. The distractions of his mind and soul are standing as roadblocks every time he places his guitar around him, strangling the very fingers that need to enchant. The whirlwind of turmoil that he placed himself in has finally started its decent. He knew it then, that he had left a part of him with her but only now did he realize the depth of the hole he had dug for himself. They were a mere few moments of trance, they had met, they had loved, and he had left. And now he stands, alone, missing that hand in his coat pocket from the last time he had touched her, lost in translation. And with every moment that has passed since then, the attempt of translating his thoughts at that train station, reasoning his actions, understanding his motives, deciphering his decisions, never dies. Life is only fair to those that give it a chance. He gave it a chance but snatched it away leaving a scar of deceit on noone but himself. But too much time has passed and the damage is too large. He can't go back but can't see himself moving forward. And that is when he turns to his music, so it can carry him a little further with its power and if not heal, but at least bring the pieces together of a broken heart. But now, two days before the concert, how is he to perform with a bandaged heart? These were not the moments he had planned his life on, these were not the options he had dreamed of giving himself, but these are the paths that have now been laid for him. And so he stands, on the eve of the concert, at the crossroads of life, lost in translation and chooses to take the dip and picks it up and strums.. In the hope that the joy on his audience's face will transcend into him and lessen the weight of his sorrows. But he doesn't realize that the just the opposite is happening, his audience is crying, his audience is in as much in pain as him, and they come to him to relieve their burdens. He doesn't realize that the whole world is drowning in sorrows everyday just like him. He is not standing alone at the crossroads of life every morning picking and choosing. The say you pick and choose your battles, what happens when you are standing alone on the battlefield fighting with no one but yourself? He now knows the answer, you turn to others and you let go, let go of all the pain, you give up finding the answers, you give up finding translations; you make your own dictionary.