something for everyone

11/05/2010 § Leave a comment

Everybody finds inspiration somewhere and sometimes it comes in droves and sometimes it’s in the weirdest places or in conversations.

Someone may find inspirations in the tedious everyday things or everytime the sun hits a fencepost in a certain way or find it in everyone he or she surrounds him or herself with.

Somehow, I am lucky to have found my inspiration in everyone.

The day was borderline frigid — fridge-ed — toes curled together, cuddling to find warmth inside their canvas hearth, yet finding nothing but canvas. Despite the chill, I still got Blue Velvet out and onto the road, went to meet up with C for coffee and chats, with my cotton gloves and pashmina to battle the breezy-breeze.

Somewhere between meeting at ella’s uncle, ordering one regular coffee, one americano, two chocolate-toffee cookies, taking a seat at the front-window bar and chit-chatting about the generals, I realized that I find people and their stories more interesting than my own. C said that he feels he has lived some pretty good stories, ones that I enjoy hearing. Then, I thought, maybe it’s because my idea of “normal” is always going to be my own, making others’ stories far more interesting.

A story usually suggests a component of imagination, of creation, even if it’s fictionalized-non-fiction, there is always a stroke of embellishment, more with some people than with others. I tend to tell my own stories in sporadic snippets and usually always kill the punchline. And by kill it, I mean dead, not – zing!

But, when I hear a story, I need not recall a thing, I take each detail and add it to an image, a picture-book in the mind rich with texture and colour and sometimes little speech-bubbles. The hues are neutral, usually browns and greys, yet with a touch of blue and green, and the possibilities of the how unfold in infintesimal ways. This is how I try to understand the core of the recounter, not because I have the desire to fulfill some need-to-know, but because I want to get it, I want to try and figure out how we all came to be the way that we are becoming. To see (or hear) the bigger picture.

Ever since I can remember, I have been a butterfly flit-flitting from friend to friend, finding out information about their families and their fears, sometimes one a mere reflection of the other. It makes me contemplative and curiously calm. Perhaps that is why going-for-coffees has always been such a big part of my life — the beverage intuitively connected with conversation and, thus, my contemplation.

Perhaps, coming to terms with who one is instead of what one does is the path that need be chosen, the definition of one’s self too often interchanged, a modern (post-Western) contortion of the Cartesian aphorism. Today, it seems: I do, therefore I am. 

I am comfortable to be a conversationalist, preferring listening and receiving as my shipping lacks delivery, and a social creature who craves coffee. Which preceeded the other in “building” who I am becoming is rhetorical because, in the end, it doesn’t matter. They are just two things that I have discovered about myself, things that don’t need to be shed to be successful, at least according to the mainstream. 

What if I don’t do a thing? Do I cease to exist as a formulated human being?

I am no genius, I am not introverted, I am not crafty, nor do I feel the need to fast-track my career, I do want a family (one day), to have a sanctuary outside the city, and to always be close to my friends, because every-single-one of them has something that inspires me. Everyone has something to share and something to offer and something to take away. It is this interchange that keeps life interesting — in between the rests, in between the rest.

Through our social interactions, we are constantly in the process of becoming.

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