The Shy Person Who Thought
Each day, I pass by many people. They are all walking somewhere too as I walk to my own destinations. These people are alone and comfortable on their own tracks. I greet one, and in a few instants we become the best of friends. This is possible because there are so few before me who have laid footsteps for me to follow.
Because the rarity of my actions brings value to my actions. I understand this. These people have tireless thoughts to relay. The places they are walking towards. The places they’ve walked to before. The destinations, having changed by time. The numerous roads not taken.
I know my worth. I do not bother; I offer relief. This is how little events create friendships. Intimate friendships of a lifetime.
A shy person imagines many things. This shy person, in any parallel world, may have imagined these same things through the same day. This shy person, in any parallel world, may have seen the same people walk by and bothered only but one of them.
And as it played out, in this alternate world, the world of a daydreamer, new best friends were made.
But, today, a shy person passes by many people and greets not one of them for all are strangers.
In a world of shy people.
October 27, 2009 at 6:38 pm | Reflections | No comments
For the Love of Autobiography
To write of past experiences in life is to strive to recollect those little beads of memory so as to string them into a necklace, idealized and molded to perfection beyond their first reception. Liquids are known for taking the shape of their container, and it is thus that these beads of memories are like dew droplets, lingering from the day before yet fragile to reshaping by the merest of touches.
There is an enchantment to collect them for their rare inspiring beauty, but if they must be reshaped by touch, it is then that the speaker’s job is to be deft and let an elegant grasp form these beads into a container worthy of their worth. Henceforth, these beads are strung into a necklace to tell a story, ongoing and personable of humanity.
In now that I speak, I recall the times I wrote of memory and know all too well that like the dew drop beads shaped by a writer’s hand, I fool myself to remember that which is more magical in essence. It is by this means that tact prevails, but it is also by this that what was born the eloquence of life becomes literature–or some combination of honesty, insight, and fascination at the past.
The autobiography is a magnificent form where the author adopts a pseudo-fictitious persona to judge and reflect upon his own life. Unlike the biography, objectiveness is a far-come goal, which only serves to heighten the depth of revelation at all truth in life. It is upon reading, writing, and appreciating the autobiography that the essence of all literature–in its power to give depth to existence–becomes clear. All literature is to some extent autobiographical as the experiences of its authors peak through.
So then if I were to choose to idly pass my time, I would dress my white pages in my own necklace of dewdrops though malformed the beads may be. My fashion is the pen as I experience the journey of the autobiography, giving facet to all loquacious squalor through the endless footage that is my own life. I will embrace this joy that my ink trails dare to embrace upon this article, and know well, the heart of reflection.
August 26, 2009 at 10:10 pm | Reflections | No comments