Hey Shaan, being a member of Medium means partaking in the tale of Serendip. There is no algorithm for the process of seeking and finding. There are roadsigns though. Names of writers I follow, daily selections by Medium, responses to my own pieces. You responded to my prompt, I started following you, and look: here you are again, with a charming piece called Music, the food of my life. I like your piece very much, the more so because we camped for three weeks in Canada and consequentially witnessed the North-American family camping mores. (We didn’t camp actually, not in the North-American sense of the concept - we didn’t build a fire, didn’t burn meat and marshmallows and didn’t play music outside our camper.)
One day we landed on an overstuffed camping. Our neighbors weren’t there, but their radio played along on the kitchen table. Not my kind of music, to say the least. I’m a bit hard of hearing, but I could follow the lyrics of the songs. And the advertisements for things I will never buy and services I will never use. This is a weak spot. I makes me mad, frankly. I am not able to push the switch and shrug and stop listening. The unsolicited music becomes obnoxious noise. Another reason I have no gun in the house (Billy Collins). On one side of the fence is a family, or no one in this case, perfectly happy humming along. On the other side is that old humorous man with his obsessive love of silence and music that amplifies silence. My wife warned me to do nothing. She was right. The neighbors returned and turned out to be a lovely couple with Polish/Portuguese roots, fond of their kids, fond of each other, fond of life. And fond of music. Lesson learned. That evening I happily slept in the smoke of their campfire under our window.