Being a stranger is not about wanting to be nameless.
It is about existing in the same space as other nameless people.
Living your own life and sharing and presenting moments you might not share
with those closest to you because it is easier to talk to someone you will never see again
than it is to admit emotions to people who will ask you questions.
Living your own life and sharing and presenting moments
you might not share with those closest to you because it is easier to talk to someone
you will never see again than it is to admit emotions
to people who will ask you questions.
Isn’t it hard?
Isn’t it
t
i
r
Is it not burdening to
i
n
g
?
to have to see so many faces
to have to hear so many voices
open ears
open eyes
To have to listen to them and respond appropriately,
when you, yourself have a day to get through?
It only becomes a burden if the heart chooses to carry
weight that does not belong to it. It is not my
burden to hold onto the troubles of those
who share the intimacies of their life.
I am just a passing stranger
someone else found comfort in.
I am a face, in the blank noise of work-a-day and chaosed life, that was
kind enough, friendly enough, n o n c h a l a n t enough
to welcome a session of oversharing.
I am a face, in the blank noise of work-a-day
and chaosed life, that was
kind enough,
friendly enough,
n o n c h a l a n t enough
to welcome a session of oversharing.
and unknown
A session of talk with no questions.
It is not the right of a stranger to ask questions.
A stranger,
is a fly on the wall in conversations
someone wishes to have by themselves
but not alone.
To be a stranger
is to entertain loneliness,
to be a distraction,
and then to be fo
ot
rg
ten.
Below are some notes about this piece, including the thoughts and external inspirations that occurred during its creation.
Bear in mind, this is simply what I was thinking of when I wrote these poems and what they mean to me. If you interpreted them differently, that does not diminish how you felt as the reader nor the correctness/incorrectness of what you were thinking. Poetry is subjective, and so is being alive.