The return is a momentous theme. Sometimes, it is viewed as a cosmic rule governing the world: the idea that everything is ever-recurring. It may also be a function of memory, supposing that memories are factually linked to the reality. However, assuming that what governs the world is not recurrence but constant change, the return becomes a cosmic utopia or an illusion of memory; oscillation and recurrence are mere mirages or handy approximations in the effort to describe the world, or delusions of order amongst widespread chaos. Interestingly enough, no matter if the possibility of a return is real or illusory, it affects the imagination equally strong. It’s essentially its main driving force. Or perhaps in a slightly different way, sensing the possibility of a return is what sparks longing, which lies at the core of imagination. Therefore, melancholy affects everything we imagine, which is, essentially, everything we as human beings can access; both ancient religions and the latest neuroscientific discoveries posit that we operate not on the basis of facts but rather constructs of the mind that reflect the actual world partially, if at all. The entire human experience is inevitably tinged with sadness. On the other hand, anything that can bring satisfaction, or can potentially mute the all-pervading sadness in the background, results in the desire to repeat it.

The way music works is based on the same mechanism. Music engages perception and memory by using what’s new and what's familiar interchangeably. It creates models of forms of experience. It builds expectations and promises returns; then, sometimes it disappoints, and on other occasions, it fulfils the expectations and brings relief. It strengthens the melancholic “cosmic microwave background”, allowing one to take a look at it as if from distance, and to get familiar with it. It allows one to experience the tragedy of existence in the suspension of the full commitment of one's own existence. It shows the passage of time without the need for a sacrifice. The Woman is awaiting the Man’s return.

She re-lives his return multiple times before it happens, supposing it will happen, even if it doesn’t. Even if, deep down in her soul, she knows it won’t. The longer she waits, the more the waiting becomes the modus of her existence; the Woman becomes the one who waits. Her concern with the one she is waiting for becomes a concern with herself. When she finally knows for sure she has been waiting in vain, it strikes her identity. Her mourning will not only be for the Man, but also for herself. Therefore, grief is accompanied by rage. Fury. The need to find the causes and the culprits of all the evil of this world.

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I am cautiously optimistic that I will finish the second part this coming week.

(transl. Zuzanna Wnuk)