To write this, or not to write this, that is the question. Well, what is the point of a blog if not to be the modern form of the confessional? Speaking the truth without seeing your audience. Without quite knowing who is listening. Not that I feel I have sins to absolve, much less via the internet, but to get on with the story...
I was walking on Capital Hill, around 2 in the morning, and as a side-note, let it be said I was very completely sober. I only had about a block and a half to my car. But I was...detained, pulled into a conversation that only sort of made sense and yet was so very intriguing. Don Quixote and his side-kick, in the flesh. These were a pair of highly philosophical drunks, young and literary and middle-class, and my game was to try to piece together all the random pieces of thought. And then, Don Quixote stared straight into my eyes and started telling me about my own past. And, it sort of made sense. Or maybe I just really wanted it to. It reminded me of the palm-reader in Before Sunset; I was being read by someone my more "realist" side would call a fake and possibly recreational scam-artist, and yet...
So when he starting moving towards me, my thought was, "Well, here's my chance to be kissed by a stranger." So I let him. And of course, it was an incredibly bad kiss. Time very quickly reasserted itself and the cold metal of my car keys sent its message to my brain, and I made my exit from this semi-reality.
But ever since, I find myself making more eye-contact with people, and letting it linger. Looking for another fortune-teller?
3 comments:
I think you should ALWAYS post stories like this! :)
Wait...are you sure you weren't an English major? Because both the story and the writing are amazing and I just read it twice and I'm about to go back for a third time.
These bits of life you are leaving are seeds for potentially great short stories. This one in particular reminds me of Rimbaud.
Post a Comment