There are moments in my everyday life when I disconnect from the present because I find the interactions of the moment to be particularly intriguing. Upon departing from the action, I become an observer who endeavors to write with the splendor a given space may merit. I scrutinize the object of my attention while seeking out as many details as possible, in the hopes that a reader of my composition will be able to follow my individual brushstrokes and discern a frozen and lacquered painting hanging on the wall that had seemed bare only moments before. I don't really know why I fill the margins of my life with these aimless annotations, but read on and preserve the musings of an absent-minded observer.
Story Telling
Disdaining the hyperbolic nature of their conversation, I reveled in the knowledge I held over them. Yes, an intriguing tale; no, not the full truth. The exaggeration of every detail fostered the expected reaction of awe from the listener. The teller had succeeded in persuading her audience of one, and she quickly reassured herself that all witnesses to the event would never figure her embellishments on what had been a rather mundane experience. How could she know that I, the witness she so dreaded, had been listening and judging. Yet I had no right to judge as in the same instance I too was the teller—eager to extract a reaction from my difficult audience of adolescent peers. I recognized the desire to entertain, to prove oneself, but in that moment when I played the part of God, I felt no mercy.Suddenly whenever I took on the role of the ambitious teller, it was of the utmost importance that I survey my surrounding audience in order to ensure the absence of any true witnesses. Small waves of embarrassment would wash over my head if I found that I hadn't been careful. In a vain attempt to regain my composure, I might shrug and smile. The all-knowing witness would catch those seemingly benign lies, but he would not confront them; rather, he would ponder them and tuck them away in a deep pocket of his memory, later to be uncovered for his own amusement.
High on My Heels
With a strut facilitated by the illusory image of confidence exuding from the ends of my toes, I participated in the individual march of happiness. I imagined for myself scenarios of found love and utter admiration, but as I glanced at the woman in front of me, hurrying home from work, I realized the utopia I had created only existed in my head. Yet I continued to march on, choosing to overlook the fugitive nature of my fairy tale. I brandished the flowing silk of my dress toward those who might question my sense of self. The bottom hem rippled back, almost fluttering, and I pushed it forward again, flaunting the ease with which my spirit billowed in the breeze and intertwined with the sublime breath of nature. Eventually the feeling passed, and I was no longer high on my heels.Do you like to write? Do you journal? Let me know what you think in the comments below!