I made a visit to the local bookstore few nights back, gathering quiet moments and hot sips of coffee between the click-clacking of keys from spilling thoughts hitting the screen and sacred spaces found with strangers. The sounds of middle-aged women with their game pieces hitting a table and of teenage giggles flittering on about a boy offered an amusing soundtrack. Without looking up, we shared a bond between these unadulterated moments, and minus the eye contact or corresponding nod, we acknowledged the worlds we were from, are in and will soon return to as foreign and yet suspiciously familial.
I smiled as I looked down at my journal and laptop and coffee and books and though I had spread them out with such abandon, they appeared interlaced with a inexplicable united friendship. I felt light and grateful and secure and whole and all those things I long to feel more often than not and I found my thoughts were unraveling themselves to mirror the gloriously messy display placed so wittingly before me.
I picked up my pen and felt warm. I was eager to write again.
