Monday, November 11, 2019

2644 : Scrutiny

Theirs was a romance that lasted a good two decades, though at the start everyone assumed it was yet another two artists and their fleeting dilettantes. The kind (of dilettantes) that artists are supposed to have. At least, in common brush strokes, artists were assumed to be fickle creatives, who were always "searching" and were (due to their art and its circles) always "finding".

And like pool table balls, they bounced off the walls, kisses other coloured balls for a fleeting second, and were free radicals the next instant again.

And yet, despite of this backdrop (of being judged) - their story lasted. Stan with his sassy tenor, and Astrud with her trebly vocals.

The intense public "glare" did take away a lot of sheen, though. They struggled to collaborate between themselves, which otherwise is common and easy between a singer and a tenor - which otherwise would almost be accepted as "normal".

Under the lens, even normal activities became taboo. In the initial years, they struggled, they faltered. Each with their marriages, and yet, each straining to find those little moments of happiness with each other.

Happiness, as Stan would always say, is a rare commodity. You glimpse it, if you do, then just appropriate it. He always philosophised, that in most lives happiness was like a shooting star. Around for a few moments, "savor those moments, you never how far away the next blimp is".

Years of public eye, and intense cynosure meant that, both Stan and Astrud felt the dark clouds that tried to wrap in their "happiness".

Eventually, Stan died, though old, but not old enough. A sad, incomplete and dejected man. Married to something, and yearning for the break away.

I met Astrud years later, and she said, "I have heard, soon one day, they are putting a huge convex lens, between the earth and the sun. You know what that means. Both the earth, and its lover, the moon, will burn, a brief inflammable moment of transigence under the rays....nothing, my dear, lasts such scrutiny under the perennial lens. Everything eventually turns to cinder. Thats what I hold in my closed fist - nothing. When I open my palms to the universe, its empty.....just like a blackhole."

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