I moved from left to right, I tilted my head from this side to that side but still the words didn’t come like they often used to. I wanted to write something true, you know, like Hemingway said, one true sentence, but I couldn’t get anything.
So I decided upon talking to a stranger, pouring my heart out, telling the stranger about my hollowness, oh yes not the stranger you meet in the road, but the stranger you lost in time, the stranger whom you once knew like the palm of your left hand.
Suddenly it struck to me, something true perhaps, about the stranger, that strangeness, and that little latent familiarity-
It is kind a sad what we forget, even sadder what we remember.
Perhaps that’s how a story should begin, you know, with a sentence like that.
So I decided upon talking to a stranger, pouring my heart out, telling the stranger about my hollowness, oh yes not the stranger you meet in the road, but the stranger you lost in time, the stranger whom you once knew like the palm of your left hand.
Suddenly it struck to me, something true perhaps, about the stranger, that strangeness, and that little latent familiarity-
It is kind a sad what we forget, even sadder what we remember.
Perhaps that’s how a story should begin, you know, with a sentence like that.
No comments:
Post a Comment