Three chords and I still don't have the truth. Only the beginnings of a hummable tune and a great view.

Every afternoon, I'd take a walk in the park. Hoping that the fresh air and sun might tease a song out of my head. A desperate attempt to compose, create. Every afternoon, I'd pass by an old man who would grin as I nodded in return. The man would sit by the river, fishing, feeding the ducks, or talking to himself. As I stood and watched and asked "why", "when" and "how". As the sun set pink over the blue-green water, the chords would rattle like questions inside my head. Each one unsingable, unconnectable, unfathomable. The closer I looked, the more I tried to listen, the less I understood.

The old man would just watch me and smile sympathetically. As if he knew where I was headed. Until one day, he came up to me and whispered, "The truth is in the view. Not the chords." And it was music to my ears.