I love getting lost in these letters. A ginger kitten teaches me that while scribbling a letter of great importance or structuring an alternate reality, I can exist in any city in the world. I can be happy in my own conjuring. The ginger kitten chaperones my otherworld travels much like the Cheshire cat. The clicking and clacking of the keys is a confection of popcorn noises that always mean the same thing, and hearts are explosive with expression. It means to truly dissolve into the alphabet puddle and wade through sticky bogs of story. It is in that bog where a thick fog curtains the outside world.Because I am not writing anything in particular, I feel more self-conscious of the eyes over my shoulder -- the eyes that are not even peering. I quickly dismiss the notion that anyone is concerning themselves with what is occurring on a stranger's iPad at the next table. There is still that lingering statement suggesting that it is not only probable, it is enticing to others as well. It is the curiosity of what someone is saying. The fact that what they are saying is silent and purely intended for the writer or a specific party in mind. Most of us traffic coffee shops for a sideshow of society, and to people-watch and eavesdrop, and be nosy of others. I admit it -- I do it. Perhaps that is why I worry that someone is attempting to peer into my secret make-believe world. The eyes appear more watchful and in greater numbers when you see the daylight of your own arid disposition. There is no show to give the others -- simply hackneyed with a cup of coffee in your pedestrian endeavors. Getting lost in the keys is symbiotic with the onlookers doing nothing -- whether they have props or not.
The home is supposed to be a setting of comfort and control, but it can also be the most crippling. Escape from the lonely quiet requires hope and imagination. The ideals of mentally checking out all predicate insane notions -- concepts resulting in a healthier and clearer afterwards -- exercising dreamier practices, afterwards informing your closest of people that you never felt more sane in your life.
The ginger kitten lures me deeper into the bog. Content-takeaway seems improbable. The content is lost because I am lost with it. There is certainly nothing in it for the expeditious reader. It becomes the literary version of brief people-watching. I just want to have even the smallest score on the board. I am lost without content, but I want it to matter. I need to know that a wayward constitution does not necessarily mean an entire lack of content. Obscurity without self-consciousness was fine. The imagination was unbridled before it made up reasons to be reluctant. When the ginger kitten stops to nap, I confide in its sleeping ears that I am walking along with no destination. I impart that I will go with the flow and tell of my journey, with no understanding of having done so. I am haunted by the prospect of nullification, but reminded that sometimes people sit in their cars and simply drive nowhere for no reason for at all. People return from the drive and something is different. There was no point or particular destination and it was okay to venture. I love getting lost in these letters and sometimes I simply wish to drive aimlessly.
Journalists and storytellers are supposed to take you somewhere and give you something to take back. I just wanted to go anywhere at all and be okay about it. I want to know that I am still interested in driving whether I know where I am going or not. I wish to take the voyaging reader to unfamiliar points of interest, but this time around I simply needed to know that I can still navigate the road -- and that I still enjoy it. I wandered without point or relevance, and then found myself insisting that be okay -- if only for myself.
I love getting lost in these letters. These letters are the windows to parts unknown. Sometimes I get lost in these letters for no reason at all.
