When people write

I wrote this today, but the clock rewinds itself to September.
I miss writing.


~


I enjoy watching people (with no intention of sounding quasi-creepy). While I was sitting on this chair, while I was writing this piece, some other person, behind me or beside me or in front of me or ten yards or twenty flights away from me might be doing the exact same thing. He or she might also be writing something about life, waiting for someone to read it. 


We were both writing on the 19th of September. I was waiting for my macaroni salad, while he or she might be waiting for something or someone else. I was under the eyes of the fading sun, he or she might have been under the trails of the beguiling moon. And yet, we are all under the same sky. I might be hiding from the cerulean beams, while he or she might have been beseeching for what I was evading. 


But that exact hour at around two in the afternoon, we were both writing. He or she might never read what I wrote. And the same thing could be said to what he or she wrote. But that Sunday afternoon, which could have been a Monday or a Saturday for him or her, we were both sitting somewhere, with a pencil or a pen or a twig clasped in our hands, writing on sand, on mud, on crumpled or cyber paper. We were both writing.


While I was observing people leaving empty tales of their morose ends and happy June, he or she might have been doing the exact same thing. He or she might be listening to a stranger's voice, freely throwing away gripes of sour lust or soft cheers of friendly jeers. 


Like doves leaving a bay, I wait for this place to empty itself of the unneeded clutter. He or she might be wishing for the exact same thing. We might be both waiting for silence amid the noise our world has created. Despite Jane Doe's gossip on my left ear and John Doe's cries on my right, I write as though I could not hear. Coffee beans on the floor, chicken bones and wasted greens fall in line, melted brownies and sad muffins enter a person to fill his or her sadness with artificial sweetness. At this very minute, he or she could also be thinking about desserts and people, people and desserts. We were both thinking of the exact same thing, but we are left unaware, separated by an invisible distance created by this world.


I turn the page of my journal, while he or she could have let the ocean eat up his or her sand scribbles, and I continue to write of the things the world gave me. The things that ruined a country, an institution, a culture. The restrictions imposed upon the innocent by the manipulative present. As I think about these thoughts, he or she might be doing the exact same thing. He or she could also be mulling over the spurious systems adopted by everyone and everything in this world from preschools to palaces, from caterpillars to world leaders.


My macaroni salad remains cold, while his or her soup or bagel or coffee remains warm. I'm almost done with my meal, but he or she might have not even touched his or her plate. At this hour, we were both writing of the things that amused us and of the things that annoyed us. At his hour, we  were both enmeshed within each other's web of imagination. I might never realize it and he or she might never realize it either, but at this hour, we were both writing. And someone may or may not read what you wrote, but someday I might read it, may it be under the fading sun or the beguiling moon. At this hour, we were both writing.