i am writing to you now to distract myself from things i could be writing about if i had the clarity and the courage to write about them. i can trace some of my reluctance to some day-old kale salad that lingers within me still. but i think what i am not writing about goes far beyond that.

the things i feel, i am not ready to express because we still do not know each other very well, although you probably know me better than i know myself. that much i can say. the things i feel might explain why my heart is beating so fast.

but the things that consume me i am leery of putting into words, lest words solidify what is transitory. i can trace some of this to my sleepless dream-filled night. so many many dreams, one after the other, a steady stream restraining me from slumber. but if i could remember any of them, you would be the first person i would tell because i totally trust how you would interpret them. i can’t say that about everybody.

how little i understand of everybody. i wish i knew them better. but human relations are so perplexing to me. i don’t know how humans do it. every time i think i understand humans and how i can best relate to them, i stumble and fall.

i might be wise to starting learning more about this… and maybe put my piano lessons off for another few weeks. my piano teacher will understand.

About The Lost Pedestrian

In my wanderings throughout the moments/days/years, I try in earnest to find the mystical within the mundane and the mundane within the mystical, oftentimes confusing one from the other. I have wandered and roamed through many a city, many a town, in a state of wonder and bewilderment, without necessarily going anywhere. I am easily lost, but eventually found. (I am guessing you have just found me). My sincere hope is that you will find Something in this warehouse of thought, memory and false memory, words, numbers, tangents, murmurs, echoes (lots and lots of echoes), voices, dreams, and other paraphernalia.
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