She’d been lost in a song going on five years now. When she first heard the song it was a warm spring night. The earth seemed in full bloom, before the withering heat of summer, the sleepiness of autumn, and the dead of winter. It was one of those perfect evenings, where twilight settles around you like softly draped silk. There was a gentle breeze that petted and played with her hair, like a lover. And the trees whispered lover’s tales from lofty branches, under the winds caress.
She had her earbuds in. And as she walked upon a scene she had seen numerous times, on numerous occasions, she thought about how different it was that she was looking upon a thing thousands and millions had looked upon before her—but how many had this melody buzzing sweetly in their ear when their eyes laid like Lewis and Clark on this landscape, looking westwardly?
And then the song opened up in front of her, like an inviting door, porchlight incandescently glowing and all. Her steps were tentative at first, perhaps staggering like a first sight of the Pacific. Where others saw pigeonholes, she saw vast and endless expanses waiting to be explored. She traversed mountains, gentle slopes, valleys, in cadence. The aria would lull her into gentle slumbers and wake her in swelling crescendos. She had no idea where she was going, what she would see, who she was. All that mattered was the song. It had possessed her; sluiced the invisible cataracts from her eyes when she didn’t even realize she was blind before. She rested by the adagio like a cool pool of water with mossy banks. She danced and skipped by the allegros like cattails in the wind. She was lost; completely and beautifully lost.
And one must be lost to be found.