Learning to unlearn

She's flipping the switch, but nothing is happening. It's either been defused completely or the veins of electrical current have been cut, rendering the switch pointless. Frantically, she feels around the room for a lamp, a flash light, anything to shift the scene. She realizes that she may have been holding her breath. The room is starting to spin. With one hand on the bookshelf to her right, she manages to regain her gait and finally exhales. She's just starting to learn to exhale. She's spent so much of her life learning to hold her breath ... learning to take in the information that was available to her and to seek out that which wasn't. Could she actually learn to love the questions more than the answers? Perhaps a season of unlearning was actually breaking way. Could she unlearn the habitual pragmatism that had been etched into her mind from as far back as she could remember --- and maybe even before she could remember? The salt shaker of reason and shots of logic that she had used to mix her poison to date had become delectable additives that now needed a new filter. The room is filled with endless imagination and an abundance of mysterious filters. She realizes her hand is resting on the shelf that houses a book titled, Proust was a Neuroscientist; A sweet mixture of science and the arts, perfectly blended into a frappe of contradiction and harmony. She's intrigued and sits down next to the blue light that is now burning bright enough to read by ..... "Science needs art to frame the mystery, but art needs science so that not everything is a mystery." Now this could be yummy! Let's eat!