The other night, at our hotel in Sacramento, after evicting Dan from the hotel room because I needed some time to myself, I sat outside on the patio and looked at the stars. It reminded me of being twelve years old at sleep-away camp, laying out on the basketball courts in my pajamas with members of my bunk and the select boys’ bunk that we happened to be socializing with that night. One of our counselors was talking to us about constellations, but I wasn’t paying attention. I just kept thinking about the cute boy from Bunk 3 who was inches away from me and WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN?
(Answer: Nothing, because we were twelve, and under adult supervision.)
But I can’t forget that feeling that I had there, laying on that concrete, wishing, wondering. There were expectations and feelings of hope and things that I just don’t experience anymore as a grown-up. (My life is, unfortunately, far too stable now.)
And sitting on that uncomfortable patio chair next to a flickering garden lamp, I had the sudden urge to write. I wanted to craft the perfect words to create the perfect sentiment so that I could show it to people and have them respond with, “I know EXACTLY what you mean!”
But there are people who don’t do that. There are people who don’t have the urge to write, draw, paint, photograph, sing. People who are content just to think and live and be within themselves. Maybe it’s because they want to keep all of the joy and pain and wonder and heartache they experience on a daily basis to themselves. Maybe they think no one will care. Or maybe they don’t even realize they’re experiencing all of that – maybe they believe that life is dull and emotions are trite and not worth expressing.
Where are those people hiding? Because I want to meet them. I want to ask them how they can not feel. How they can not have that urge to make something that is entirely theirs. Because I will never know what that feels like, but I kind of want to.