Circle

He looked with an un-interrupted gaze, a rapt attention, which communicated nothing in specific. It had an emptiness of a deep surprise or disbelief as he continued to sit and gaze at the stage. The artists had been immersed in their performance, subconsciously aware of an audience, glued and applauding.

He had gone there specifically to drown the echoes of a critical mind. Those that had made him one of the best critic of art, in town. But the profession had given him a perspective, that for centuries was considered suicidal. One that drives away beauty and what have you, from life..

This was an invitation from an actor friend. As he let his consciousness merge with the performers, his friend tapped at his shoulder..

“Dude! Sometimes just see things as they are.. like a detached observer.. dispense with the critic’s mind sometimes..“

“Hey Peter! I’m sorry, didn’t notice your coming.. and.. well! There is a difference between being disinterested and uninterested. I get involved with disinterest. I’m not a scavenger, fishing for trash and neither the drift of a wind – permeable anywhere…But thanks for the invite, it really is a pleasure to witness this..”

“Glad that you like it…, good that it’s worthy of compliments from you..”

Interesting it is that you constantly remind me that I breathe and live beyond my work too. These were the things that you came to me for, when you struggled as an actor. A critic’s deep intent was to see perfection, that we are capable of .You needed one, then. How ironic that today you reckon it as a disease to be cured of! You’re a dear friend, nonetheless!

“Yeah, hope you’re enjoying it too, and my presence is not a pre-occupation.. “

Audience breaks into clapping. Both of them take another dive, losing the headiness of knowing who they were, as the new act began..

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