broken home

To be a scientist is to be naive. We are so focused on our search for truth, we fail to consider how few actually want us to find it. But it is always there, whether we see it or not, whether we choose to or not. The truth doesn’t care about our needs or wants. It doesn’t care about our governments, our ideologies, our religions. It will lie in wait for all time. And this, at last, is the gift of Chernobyl. Where I once would fear the cost of truth, now I only ask: What is the cost of lies?

The truth doesn’t care about our needs or wants. It doesn’t care about our governments, our ideologies, our religions. It will lie in wait for all time. And this, at last, is the gift of Chernobyl. Where I once would fear the cost of truth, now I only ask… What is the cost of lies?

Where would we find them, if none of this had happened?

Would Tyler just be the boy that checked out your groceries? Would we find him living out his life in Columbus, barely scraping by, hanging onto the last remaining threads of a dream he once had. Would we find him awake late at night, unable to get a melody out of his head, but insisting to himself that “i need to sleep, i have work tomorrow.” Would we find him married and happy, but constantly wondering “is there more to this. Is there something more I could do.” Would we find his notebooks filled with unsung song lyrics: bits and pieces of Addict with a Pen, Goner, Ode to Sleep, strewn out in phrases, ideas, and sketches. Bits of songs that were never given the chance to materialize into something more. 

Would we find Josh working behind the counter of a drum store. Would there be pages of drum and drumstick sketches beneath the cash register: ideas for his own designs back when he had almost enough money to make it happen. Would we hear the jangle of a bell as a young boy comes in, and finds Josh, the most tattooed man in the store. And just like young Josh, would the boy come in and sit down at the drums, immediately transported to a concert as he closes his eyes and invents the beat. Would we find Josh glancing over the live concerts playing on the tv, wondering if maybe that could have been him. If only he had taken the leap. If only he had taken the chance. If only his voice didn’t give way, if only his knees didn’t buckle at the very thought of being on stage. Would he go home to a loving family, and tell himself “I am content.” Would we find him staring at the pink sky as it fades into night, desperately wishing he could articulate the feeling the world gives him. Desperately wishing someone could understand the art that floods his mind.