[I had a title and then forgot it…]
Last week I wrote a poetry-type piece.
I was VERY surprised by the reactions. There wasn’t a huge number of comments, but I did get a lot of e-mails and chat inquiries.
“Was it real?”
“Who was it about?”
And, being me, in many cases I gave the sketchiest of replies.
I was genuinely amazed by the level of interest. Not that people read it — as I have a kickass group of readers/blogfriends — but that people were so curious.
I think that played into me being less than forthcoming in replying to their questions. It made me put the privacy shields up.
But, the bigger reason was that I didn’t want to mess with what I thought had turned out to be a pretty effective post, by letting people see behind the curtain.
It is what it is, you know?
“Well, I hope that she at least knows that it is about her, jerkass.”
If, you know, there is an actual she.
Maybe she read it.
Maybe one of her friends figured it out immediately.
Maybe there was a perfect opportunity to discuss it, but ringing phones and visitors transpired to put a screwing into that.
Maybe when too much time had passed, it became an awkward subject to again broach.
Maybe I’m a giant wuss.
Maybe not for the obvious “fear of rejection” reasons.
Maybe I didn’t want the reality of logistics or common sense to ruin the moment.
Maybe there are so few really pure experiences in life that when they appear, they should be celebrated.
Maybe some special moments in time should be marked, but not dissected. Highlighted, but not questioned. Enjoyed, but not stressed over.
And ALWAYS appreciated.
Maybe some people just deserve to have a blog post written about them.
Or maybe it was all just about a guy and the perfect slice of French toast.
Maybe if it was about you, you’d know.