Another guest spot this week from another very good school-hood friend by the name of Nils. See more writing by Nils at his blog: Nils’ London
Enjoy
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A Girl On The Train
What would she think of me? Aggressive hair, yellow fingers stained from a decade of nicotine addiction and the smell of vodka pungent on my breath. Is she too conservative for a lost soul, searching for answers, searching himself?
I think about writing a note about her smelling nice, folding it neatly in half ad handing it to her as I step off the train at Clapham Junction.
With no flirting or temptation on my mind, the thought is one purely of benign curiosity, what would her reaction be, would it change her life, or would she dismiss it as yet another broken hearted attempt to be the merry provider in her life.
Is she someone who appreciates the artistic poetry of a wanderer’s ranting prose?
Am I that good? Am I Arturo Bandini?, struggling to be published, eating the oranges I keep hidden beneath my bed?
I’ve got a soul on my sleeve, attached to my heart, but my tailor is reluctant to remove it through fears of madness.
The contents of the note would have to involve intricate, elongated thought, to search through my creativity to create the single greatest single-lined phrase ever read. How much can one single piece of paper, torn from a spiraled note pad make a difference in somebody’s life?
How wonderful it would be to know the outcome of such a situation, how her mind would revel in a stranger’s gift of words on paper.
Could I change her life?
The course of history could be dramatically shattered, for better or for worse, and I would never ever know. The more I contemplate the rather strange yet heroic (?) act, the more I consider it a good idea.
But I am no literary God, non-omnipotence leaves me in a predicament too hard to evaluate.
I am but me, a lowly scholar, reading my own words over and over again with no inclination as to whether any of it is any good.
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I saw parts of a movie the other day, the star of the show was standing in front of a local store and gas station in a small town, a little girl came up to him and offered him a cinnamon roll, one of those that come in a package of 6 or 8 for a couple dollars. He took the cinnamon roll and they talked a little bit.
I had the thought while I watched of how I want to regain my freedom to love like the little girl. She had no concern for changing the world, or of how the man would react, or of what he world think about the quality of the cinnamon roll she had to offer.
She saw someone she wanted to express her love toward and she did it. And it was really beautiful. I just want to be free to experience the beauty that is me and know for myself and in myself that it is valuable.
I understand the desire in this post. The desire to love. That's the voice of the heart.
In the movie; after the hero's encounter with the little girl, he was able to make the decision he was struggling with. Because of her innocent touch, he knew something.
We can come to the place where we love without looking back to see the effect. We can come to trust our inner voice and know the value of ourselves. Even if little by little.
Here is a cinnamon roll for you my dear friend.
I freaking love your blog... It's freaking awesome! I would love to speak to you sometime. Let me know when you are free...
Hey Thanks Leon. The feedback really is appreciated. although I really can't take any credit for the last two posts ;-)
I'm working on a piece about 'Drugs' for my next big post, hopefully it will provoke much thought on the subject, as the piece certainly will not be 'anti'.
db.