Bookmark #762

It occurs to me that these pieces would not exist without the people I meet, talk to, or even stumble upon, never to come across again. Every other piece begins with an anecdote or an extract from some elaborate conversation I had with someone else. In a way, none of these words belong to me, for they have been stolen. This is a robbery! And you, fair reader, have been an accomplice. But in all seriousness, I did not want to begin this piece with a confession. Now, it seems I have taken a different tangent and a segue into what I meant to say today would cost me terribly in meter, in cadence and in rhythm. So, now, I must turn this into a monument for all the people who sit behind these pieces.

I owe it all to them, their insights, and their misgivings. How beautiful it is that every person is poetic if we listen closely. Today, a friend sent me a text message that had perfect alliteration—not that they realised this, not that they had to, but I did, and I told them, and lucky for me—for it is not always that an off-timed remark sits well with the listener—they took it gladly. But on another note, what else can one do when told they are poetic? It may be a compliment of the highest order, and here, I paid it without realising it. No, no, no, that is miles away from how I meant it. You see, this is my terrible affliction in real life when I am outside this room and in the world of people. My words disagree with my heart.

At least once, I have wanted to tell someone, “I love you”, and failed so terribly in my tone I scared them out of it. It rarely ever is about what we say; almost always, it is about the how. But we all make mistakes when tired, confused and out of depth. When I said it was a compliment of the highest order, I simply meant that all people are poetic and, thus, worthy of receiving such a compliment. The writers, poets, and watchers only reflect the world—at least those of us who are honest.

And now, I think you may be mildly curious about what I wanted to write about before I began a rave about people and their innate artistic value, and to that end, I ask you, “What does it matter? There were far better things to talk about, weren’t there?”

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