The Busker on B Street waves in your direction, inviting you to come listen to his song.
"I don’t have time," you say as you hurry by. You’re running late for work and there’s an important meeting that you simply cannot afford to miss. The busker raises an eyebrow, and you check your watch and see that somehow, miraculously, you are ten minutes early. As you pause in confusion, the busker begins to play.
The song is familiar, you swear you know it from somewhere. But it’s also brand new, unlike anything you’ve heard before. There’s something about the music that immediately draws you in. You can’t help but stop, and turn, and listen.
The melody sings like flashes of sunlight twinkling on the ocean’s surface. The rhythm chimes like a tang of citrus, followed by a blast of frigid winter wind. The chords soar like a jagged mountain peak. The music has the beat of a rich vibrant magenta, the harmony of a warm woody cedar, and is altogether sweet and sharp as a honeybee.
And as he plays the Busker on B Street ignites with energy, bright as any neon light. He jumps and spins and twirls with the momentum of an energetic motor and the excitement of a bustling subway station. His fingers dance along the strings of his guitar, fluid as water leaping from a fountain. And throughout it all the busker grins from ear to ear with the infectious joy of a child on the morning of their favorite holiday.
Then at last the song comes to an end. Time stands still. You stand as if in a trance, not wanting this moment to end, trying to understand what you just heard, unsure of what to do next.
“Wow, that was…” your voice trails off as you struggle to find the right words. In the end, you can only whisper “thank you.” The Busker on B Street smiles and tips his hat. You reach for your wallet, eager to give him a tip. You know it won't begin to compare to the experience that he just gave you, but you have to give him something, anything. You find a handful of cash but when you look up, the busker is nowhere to be found.
You run up and down the street hoping to find him, but he’s gone. You try to hum his song to yourself, but that too is gone. The melody was right there, so distinctive, so catchy, so memorable, and yet…you can’t remember a single note.
You remember what you were supposed to be doing. Work. The important meeting. You check your watch and see that you are ten minutes early.
And the busker’s song hangs in the air, just out of reach.