"Beauty crowds me till I die" -Emily Dickinson
I noticed the other day, while wallowing across the intersection, between practically nameless side-streets on a busy city's saturday swing, that there are seriously countless almost attractive people, basketfuls of them, libraries stacked of them, tin cans overflowing in rainswept gutters with more than tolerable people. They all have stories worth hearing if I happen to be in the mood and eyes with which I could catch myself accidentally, casually making quick contact, and it wouldn't be quite romantic, but not quite awkward either. For a moment we would stare, but not stare, per say, deeply or profoundly. We would skim the tide of each other's softly summarized soul...But anyway, a sea of personalities, y'know? Each bobbing its head above the whimsy of circumstance, colliding like rubber ducks in a three year old's bath tub hurricane, politely excusing themselves. And of course that secret look. You know the one. It happens between you or I and her or him. When paths neither cross nor perfectly parallel but sort of just acknowledge one another. And those paths are pages. And those pages recall separate accounts of the same shared sequence. Like when I saw you in the midst of a hurried, scattered lie of life, and we were both interrupted from our day, by the way, by the simply inconceivable though utterly temporal discovery, however frightening, that there were actually at very least two distinct persons in the world.
And I, oh my, I was only one of them.
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