Open Books

I want to be connected.

In- between thoughts, I admire the walks, and habitual movements, and the backs of those in front of me crossing the street. I notice their hair- blond, brown, black- and their backpacks, especially the ones that are the same rusty orange as mine. Though, their initials are different, I’m glad to see that something that belongs to me belongs to someone else. We are different. We have something that’s exactly the same.

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

Are yours and mine the same?

I hope they are. I really do.

I’ve written it before, but I have a feeling that we spend most of our time avoiding one another. Walking and talking and looking around each other. But I don’t know why. I have a feeling that we share more than the same backpacks and shoes and songs.

Your sunglasses keep me out, and your cell phone is stealing your attention, and you look at the ground the moment I look for your eyes. I’m going to be so bold as to say that you are avoiding me. And I avoid you too.

You’re a blur, really. You are whatever I want you to be. What you look like is who you are. And I’m sure you’re assuming and doing the same about me.

***

At the grocery store, you’re on the same aisle as me. And while you pick between crunchy or smooth peanut butter, you want to cry because ...but you can’t because I’m standing there

Rewrite: you don’t know what you’re doing

Rewrite: your thinking about how much your dad loves peanut butter

Rewrite: you’re picking out peanut butter for your roommate and you so happen to be allergic to it, but you’re awesome, and will hold it at arm’s length all the way to check-out

So, I say “hi

Rewrite: I stare blankly as you choose because I don’t know what I’m doing

Rewrite: I’m thinking about how much my dad loves peanut butter

Rewrite: I want to cry because…but can’t because you’re standing there

Rewrite: I wonder what it would be like to be allergic to peanut butter and pity those who are.

Rewrite: pretend I don’t see you, and grab my peanut butter and head for the Oreos.
…
We’re missing “it,” whatever “it” is. But “it” was intended to be good.

You’re supposed to be giving me advice, and sharing your hopes, and letting me find little pieces of myself in you. And I’m supposed to tell you this story about this time that is going to help you when your time comes. And I’m supposed to encourage you and love you unconditionally because that’s what God asks me to do.

Supposed to. But don’t.

I want to be connected.

I want more than small talk, and absently watching movies, and staring at cracks in the sidewalk to avoid the one’s in your face.

If I may be so unrealistic and hopeful, I’ll say this.

We’re all our own little books. And if we were read, and read others’, it’d probably be the best thing, hardest thing, saddest thing, most romantic thing, scariest thing, most vulnerable thing, craziest thing, Greatest thing any of us would ever or could do.

In my ideal world, we’d all be open books, but in reality, we’re mostly shut.

And as an avid reader, I have a feeling that there are some amazing books that I’ll never get to read, and I’m sorry for it.