Musings #82: To whom it may concern

I like to write right before bed. In those moments I used to spend in an anxiety-induced state brought on by the thinking up of some fake scenarios or going over mistakes of the past as though I could change them by sheer force of will – trust me, if it could be done, we’d all have do-overs by now.

I also write early in the morning when a nagging thought persists through the night, or I wake up feeling like the world is at my feet and no task is impossible to complete, should I wish it done. I must admit that it’s bizarre indeed to write something that has the potential to be read by anyone, something that won’t live and die in the notes section of my cell phone. And maybe no one will read it! Or perhaps just you and I. Connected here by words on a screen.

Is that not intimate?

That I speak to you now a dear friend or stranger. Does it not intrigue you that this may, in fact, be a private conversation, be a thing between only you and me? Perhaps not. But I do ponder on such things.

And do people even read articles like this anymore? Random musings of someone of no particular note or excitement? What would it add to your day to read what was on my mind for a brief moment, some unknown amount of time ago? Why read an entire article when you could simply see what I was up to on social media. Or better yet, why not commit my thought to a short snippet of 140 characters or less on someone else’s platform.

Sometimes having a reason is boring. Why not do things for the sheer pleasure of doing them. I like to write, and maybe you like to read, so why not have our actions be of mutual benefit? And I suppose I write because even words need a place too. Feelings represented by words without an agenda ought to have their place in the sun also.

For example, I have yet to pinpoint the name of the feeling I get when moving out of a space. When I’m left standing in an empty room with the final box of my things for what may be the last time. It’s not necessarily sadness – although maybe it is, and I’m not as perceptive as I’d like to believe.

But it’s weird standing in an empty space that was once so full, stripped bare of any traces of you. A place where you found comfort and peace and hopefully good memories that will soon belong to someone else. Someone who probably won’t know you or the fact that you even exist (except when referred to as ‘the previous tenant’). Who probably won’t think twice about you when they move in their couch or futon or open the fridge for the first time and look at the bare shelves where your food once sat.

I think it’s the emptiness that bothers me. The utter indifference of the space itself, unaffected by your disappearance. Oh, if these walls could talk! Would they say they’ll miss me?

If this analogy provides you with no clarity on my point, I must admit that maybe I’m a better reader than a writer. I have found other people’s words to be better brushes for painting my thoughts.