I could have told her a better lie than the truth
he suppressed. he's repressed. he just doesn't understand how very much it means.
I told the truth
That it meant that little
That it always always means that little
and yes, sometimes you realize how little it means and it floors you
you know how little you thought it might mean but couldn't believe
it? well, it means less. less than that. less than a walk to the grocery
store. less than the person behind the counter at your local cafe and
what they think of you when you order a triple mocha latte that one day.
less than that means. less than the cat's opinion. less
than pepsi vs. coke.
it means that little. YOU mean that little.
and what do you do with that? you think of all the disposable moments
and situations and incidences in your life and the inverse correlation
you have fought to build between irrelevance and time invested and you
wonder: how can anything you do that much mean so little. how can anyone
you do so much mean so little.
I'm not talking until the end of the world here.
I'm not saying that every person you meet and greet gets your
heart and a key to the backdoor. I am talking about the simple space
that they create when they nestle up close to you and how that groove
becomes part of you. how that dent and that soft soft sand caves like a
funnel when they jump from the wave. I'm talking about valuing another's
presence who you've made way to invite into the ubiquitous place in your
life.
I'm talking about people.
We meet and we greet and we smile and we have picnics and we tell
stories and we tell secrets and we tell little white lies. And somewhere
along the way what they say and what they think and how they look when
they smile at you takes on a certain unique signature. It takes on
meaning.
Except when it doesn't.

And that.
Well, I can't explain what I don't understand.