It was a big step for her to open up; never mind that I already knew her secret. Left alone with her quiet tragedy on another quiet evening, I wonder why I have to keep myself from smiling. I've mistaken a confession for closeness, no doubt. But even that granted, that I should derive pleasure from her sadness, however tangentially, makes me reflect how impossibly far I feel from most everyone around me. I'm ready to grab any hand in the darkness, be it from kindness or pity.
I'm alone this evening only because I let her secret hang in the air, slowly press down, and push me out. Before walking away, there was perhaps an opportunity to keep our brief candle alight a while longer. I think she's lonely - I know I am - so I should have asked her if she wanted to walk awhile, perhaps. It's not entirely implausible she would have agreed. But somehow, I sensed that she knows there are worse things than being alone, so I just left.
Why did she feel it the right moment to invite me into that private world? It is perhaps that I offered my plea first, conscious that it would encourage an unguarded moment or two. I held nothing back, and said my piece without a hint of self-pity. So calm was my acceptance of perpetual defeat, I doubt she had ever seen anyone quite so pathetic. Is that what it takes for me to seem human?
She ended with an admission of despair, meant perhaps to comfort me: I too wonder sometimes, she said, what am I doing here? I almost wanted her to say, I too wonder sometimes, what good am I? Only because I could then counter with a private truth of my own: People see no worth in you, but I do. But she held her composure, and the moment passed. It's just as well, because I don't know that I could have explained myself if pressed. Even if I could, why would she care to listen? Anyone can see her eyes are fixed elsewhere; anyone can see that I am blind.
I am also taken back to another who told me her secret. Then, like now, I knew that the beginning was also the end; then, like now, I had my sights already set on another city, another life. I have places to go, always, but never people. Only as the day fades can I make out where the light shines the brightest.
I'm alone this evening only because I let her secret hang in the air, slowly press down, and push me out. Before walking away, there was perhaps an opportunity to keep our brief candle alight a while longer. I think she's lonely - I know I am - so I should have asked her if she wanted to walk awhile, perhaps. It's not entirely implausible she would have agreed. But somehow, I sensed that she knows there are worse things than being alone, so I just left.
Why did she feel it the right moment to invite me into that private world? It is perhaps that I offered my plea first, conscious that it would encourage an unguarded moment or two. I held nothing back, and said my piece without a hint of self-pity. So calm was my acceptance of perpetual defeat, I doubt she had ever seen anyone quite so pathetic. Is that what it takes for me to seem human?
She ended with an admission of despair, meant perhaps to comfort me: I too wonder sometimes, she said, what am I doing here? I almost wanted her to say, I too wonder sometimes, what good am I? Only because I could then counter with a private truth of my own: People see no worth in you, but I do. But she held her composure, and the moment passed. It's just as well, because I don't know that I could have explained myself if pressed. Even if I could, why would she care to listen? Anyone can see her eyes are fixed elsewhere; anyone can see that I am blind.
I am also taken back to another who told me her secret. Then, like now, I knew that the beginning was also the end; then, like now, I had my sights already set on another city, another life. I have places to go, always, but never people. Only as the day fades can I make out where the light shines the brightest.
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