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"Reality" Is The Only Word In The English Language That Should Always Be Used In Quotes.*
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So, I probably did something stupid. Or brave. Or both.
The other evening when I was trudging slowly to my car, the library director was also leaving the building. We spoke of the cold—it’s been in the teens—and something said reminded me of a poem I wrote.
Since then, I’ve been thinking of the poem, and thinking of sending it to her. I think of it, then I think, “but why?” Then I think, “don’t do it.”
Yesterday, I cried. Not about that specifically, but it was in the mix. It seemed insanely stupid, but also like something I really wanted to do. It wasn’t going to accomplish what I wanted, but I still wanted to do it.
What did I want to accomplish?
To make a human connection. That’s usually what I’m trying to do when I’m doing something stupid: trying to connect to someone who sees me as background noise or an obstacle or another brick in the wall.
I am not another brick in the wall.
And this morning I realized I wanted very much to be seen as something other than a cog, interchangeable for the purposes of the library, all of my individuality nothing but edges better filed down to fit more easily in the round hole of my cubicle.
I feel so dismissed here.
So I sent the poem.
It isn’t going to do what I want.
It’s a perfectly ordinary little poem. It doesn’t make a statement; it just speaks with minor eloquence about how I feel about the four seasons. It’s easy to understand, if not identify with. It won’t confuse her.
It won’t change anything. I’ll just be a cog who can write a mediocre poem.
I’ll just be a cog who randomly sends her irrelevancies.
Whatever her response—and there will be one, because she is too politic not to respond at all—it will not be a response that sees me. Because for her to see me would mean her changing, and she is not going to change. She’s very content in her position.
It won’t change anything. I’ll still be invisible.
*Unknown
-:- -:- -:- -:-
So, I probably did something stupid. Or brave. Or both.
The other evening when I was trudging slowly to my car, the library director was also leaving the building. We spoke of the cold—it’s been in the teens—and something said reminded me of a poem I wrote.
Since then, I’ve been thinking of the poem, and thinking of sending it to her. I think of it, then I think, “but why?” Then I think, “don’t do it.”
Yesterday, I cried. Not about that specifically, but it was in the mix. It seemed insanely stupid, but also like something I really wanted to do. It wasn’t going to accomplish what I wanted, but I still wanted to do it.
What did I want to accomplish?
To make a human connection. That’s usually what I’m trying to do when I’m doing something stupid: trying to connect to someone who sees me as background noise or an obstacle or another brick in the wall.
I am not another brick in the wall.
And this morning I realized I wanted very much to be seen as something other than a cog, interchangeable for the purposes of the library, all of my individuality nothing but edges better filed down to fit more easily in the round hole of my cubicle.
I feel so dismissed here.
So I sent the poem.
It isn’t going to do what I want.
It’s a perfectly ordinary little poem. It doesn’t make a statement; it just speaks with minor eloquence about how I feel about the four seasons. It’s easy to understand, if not identify with. It won’t confuse her.
It won’t change anything. I’ll just be a cog who can write a mediocre poem.
I’ll just be a cog who randomly sends her irrelevancies.
Whatever her response—and there will be one, because she is too politic not to respond at all—it will not be a response that sees me. Because for her to see me would mean her changing, and she is not going to change. She’s very content in her position.
It won’t change anything. I’ll still be invisible.
*Unknown