i’m still talking to you through the margins of this book

I often find comfort in the silent.

You know the type; the folk that sit still as the world turns around them - not always a home, but a play, an act to watch.  You’ll see them in the streets, on benches, in coffee shops, just waiting endlessly.  You might wonder what they’re waiting for, but they don’t trouble themselves with such things.  The weather might change, the years will go by, and you’ll still find them there, testing time, waiting. 

In a way, I both pity and envy these people.  They are so immune to changes, that almost nothing shakes them.  Yet, I can’t imagine not having my world being rattled once in awhile.  I can’t imagine not being surprised, or being at a loss of words, or even being scared.  All of these feel so innate in the experience of being human, that to not experience them not only bothers me, but defies the mind.

I know quite a lot of people like this - a few friends, and family members.  You can spot them a mile away, or at least I can.   I seem to be drawn to them, for some reason I can’t figure out.  Maybe it’s that I don’t understand the steadiness. Perhaps it’s the consistently boring banality they offer that gives me some ground to walk on - the world could crash down in front of them, and they would still stare off into the distance, waiting.