“Have I told you I’m a writer?” It is the test. I’ve only told two of them. One…was short lived and this one will be too. The reaction is everything. I sit back. I wait. I listen to their stories, dreams, jokes, and I share very little of myself. They rarely notice. You’d be surprised how long people can go on talking about themselves. Or maybe you wouldn’t. It’s a long time. Only exacerbated by the space I allow. Space to collect my thoughts and judge the environment.
“Oh you are? I hate writing.” “Oh you are? I write too.” “Oh you are? I should pick the habit up too.” Perhaps I am overly sensitive. I am not talking about habits or something I do. I am telling you who I am. I am married to metaphor, wed to words, I liaise with lyric and partner with prose. This isn’t a hobby. I won’t outgrow it. I do not try for it. I am it. It’s one of the most intimate things I could share with someone. And the reaction…it tells me everything.