Nights upon nights of hard work, the midnight oil was exhausted by me, I finally ground out my first album from recording to production to wrapping was all done by me. Music is one of my greatest passion, I just needed some cash to sustain my passion in reality. Passion can never be the food that satisfy the physical hunger, it is the action that can make passion edible.

50 CDs were fitted nicely into a cardboard box, I carried it along with my guitar to my usual spot at the edge of the bustling New York City where the not-so-famous street performers dwelt. The concrete jungle was filled with hustle even the night was still young, basked in the dawn of the intermittent changing rays of lights, I parked myself at one of the most unsaturated spots, and started playing as per routine.

When I was setting up, a kind-hearted soul walked into my direction, presumably finding interest in my album. I kindly caught a glimpse of that man, he was a middle class person in his casual Fridays, about the average height and the guy that you expect in your working place. As the lights busily flickered across my head, the guy handed me a 10 dollar bill and took a copy of my album.

My first sale! I was excited, very. Words were difficult to form from my mouth, “Tha…”

CRACK! The guy folded my album into half, smashed it hard unto the ground, shattering the album, breaking my glassy heart at the same time. THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Giving it three coup de grace, making sure that the album was finely turned into crisp, so did my soul.

I was blank, I did not know how to reach, at all.

My efforts and passion tarnished, just like that, I was hollowed out by reality- humanity. Noticing the guy was holding his phone recording the whole time, I did not do anything stupid to further worsen the situation, clenching my fist, biting the bullet, I remained calm, cool and collected.

The guy looked into my soul with a malignant smile, I instinctively handed back the ten-dollar note in a 90 degree-bow fashion. “I am sorry.” I uttered loud and clear, “For being such an un-professional artist.” People started to turn around, raising their apertures into the air, recording the act at the moment. The guy cowered in embarrassment and fled into the deluge of the crowd.

I looked at the broken pieces that was my hard work, stared blankly into it for a few moments, swallowed whatever that had happened and carried on with what I was doing. Played a few songs, and ended the day as if nothing had happened.

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