The Cursor

The blank screen is a fascinating place. Home to a curious character. Like a kid, sitting on the floor with crossed legs, staring up at you; blinking with a fixed rhythm, waiting for a story.

The stare.

And what do you give him? Good stories? Encouraging ones? Or ones you really want to tell someone. Anyone! Or do you recount true stories? Sometimes he likes to listen to old ones as well. He hopes the tale somehow grows in the telling. A nice, new detail here, or the name of a previously unknown character. Or maybe you are telling him the same tale over and over again, in the hopes of making it better. And he listens. Every time.

Or do you burden him with learnings; observations and thoughts that have been coalesced and articulated by standing on the shoulders of giants? Do you tell him about the cure for a disease that is going to save millions of lives? Imagine his fascination, listening to so many different stories, and accounts, and learnings, and yearnings — of hearts young and old.

He must be desperate, I’m sure, to advise you. Tell you to do better. When you are pouring your heart out; wearing out keyboards by describing her beautiful smile in thousands of ways. Or maybe tell you to stop waiting. He has seen it all. He probably wants to help you. Or maybe not. Maybe he’s so interested in the stories, he just wants to see what happens when you do things your way.

He is a well-traveled journalist. Sitting in front of thousands of noteworthy people everyday. If only he could speak out his mind. He hears first about the destroyed families, the bombed towns, the miracles performed by astronauts; of achievements big and small, of new policies, of scandals, of money, and deals, and crashes, and births and deaths.

Imagine, if he could tell you stories. But he won’t. His life is dedicated to hearing you out. And to make you tell him things. In confidence. He won’t ask, or tell, or judge. He will just be there.

Always ready to listen to you.


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