I wanted to journal my thoughts today, to etch them in pen and paper like I so rarely do. I wanted to write them down in an indecipherable script, or use some kind of shorthand that only I can understand. But here I am, typing clearly, whispering my words. I'm not sure why I want to write this down, what to release to this digital world, or why the stirring and repetitive wonderings of my memory alone is not enough. But my observations of the passers-by, their ambiguous thoughts on love, life and lust, of things that were over and would not come back yet the belief that they were still vividly present somewhere within reach, these things almost forcefully guide my tone as my perspective manifests.
I took a long walk home last night, partially to think about the phone conversation I had before and also to reward myself with some quiet time. At one point I parked myself by a bench along a train station, perked a cigarette between my fingers, folded my legs and watched the rush hour leftovers hurry right past me. Around our lives there will always be hints and rumours and suggestions, and I wonder if it's just part of the time and place.
Everyone who walked by was carrying with them a heady aura of a second life which seemed half secret and half open, as if it was OK to know but not mention. I sat there and searched each face as it passed, trying to decipher what it might unwittingly reveal, straining to listen carefully to their thoughts for little nuances and clues to take a brief but substantial peek into the souls of these strangers. And for the brief moment that these precious ones allowed me insight into their world, I forgot my own.
For myself, I've learned never to disclose anything, and never even to acknowledge the moment when some new information was imparted. I seem to have mastered the act of behaving as though a mere pleasantry had been exchanged, one that never concerned me. The men and women in this literary country move about like players in a game of knowing and not knowing, pretence and disguise. I've learnt everything from these strangers who whizz by, those who guard their heart and thoughts with fierce protection.
But is it really just part of the time and place? Maybe in a different country or period people allow themselves to believe that you had no hidden and secret self unless you emphatically declared to the contrary. Maybe there's a culture out there... one of easy duplicity, the sense you'd get of those men and women as they casually withhold what matters to them the most. Wouldn't that be shocking.
I've never had such a strong affinity for the intrigue, yet I thrive in knowing secrets.
Because not to know would be to miss almost everything.
x
Noise: Saviour King, Hillsong.
Let now the lost be welcomed home.
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