No one knows this about me…
And I’m not even sure I do. I might have an idea, but in a realm of ‘now’, I just naturally don’t think about it, and so it gradually changes, until someone asks, ‘Are you alright there, love?’
What do you mean?
Have I not noticed something? Where was I? How many of us are more used to notice things of others rather than ourselves? How many of us prefer to tell things about others to them, rather than to hear that we have missed something going on literally in our own selves?
For these and many other related reasons, I honestly have to admit — what no one knows about me, I potentially do not know either. Except maybe things that I took place in and they simply happened to me. Or my own OCD type of behavioural tendencies I never thought can be relevant to someone else to know about. And yet — where is the border between knowing and not necessarily telling, and hiding away? When does one become the other, and vice versa? Under what circumstances?
I am sure those who know me also know that I like to put salt in pretty much everything. And when I say ‘everything’, I mean adding them crystal sprinkles onto a yoghurt with a raspberry jam, mixing these tiny white sandy granules into fruit salad, and even adding a nail end bit into my coffee. I just cannot resist that saline aftertaste once the main bitter/sweet tones melt away, giving stage to long lasting overflow of an unexpected closing act. But why do I like it? What is the pre-history of salting my deserts? I don’t know.
Just as I don’t know why clumsy people who spill things all over their place look so blissfully absent minded that I just cannot but laugh at them, sigh for a moment and admit that yes, life is beautiful; To the point where I feel I want to be friends with them, only out of curiosity to find out whether they are an actual god’s sent tool to show us that we have surrounded ourselves with too many items situated wrongly in too many places, or whether they are granted with a mystical power to divide people into two kinds — those that get annoyed at their clumsiness, and those that sympathise with it; As I also don’t know why men who wear checked shirts to me appear to be a definition of a dream inside a stagnant mind of a 15 year old, and even if I think: “Why would I care?”, I cannot stop myself from grinning sardonically and wishing them to grow up. If not for themselves, then at least for the sake of their girlfriends, which they probably have attracted exactly because of that style, that reflects exactly that dream, and probably the one of theirs. It goes like: “He looks like he must be playing in an indie rock band, maybe one day he might even write a song about us (me)”.
Well, not until you have broken up, darling!
So what I know about myself exactly, is that I love observing people. I indulge into recreating possible life stories of theirs, and how their life could be affected by the way wind blows their hair, or by the way they wear different coloured gloves on their hands. And I know some people know this about me, but I guess for some others the definition of “I like to observe people” is so unstriking, that they wouldn’t bother delving into all the reasons why. Neither would have I, to be fair, all I could do is go and ‘study people’, hoping that this will explain something about them (and myself too). It didn’t work out, however. I just have more questions now, and more excitement to plunge into wonder, situate myself into different scenarios I observe around me. But once life situates myself into a real life scenario, I always feel I have to improvise. Especially now when I think of those few times, when I bought tickets for a journey to leave on Friday, but then at a bus station a driver tells me “look, it clearly says ‘Saturday’”. I have no time to think what to do, so I simply act as I would. Half the times I ended up not getting into the ‘wrong’ bus, another half I got in. Sometimes when I tell this to people they say ‘mad!’, other times they think I am just a bit of a fool.
So what I really don’t know about myself that others might do, is what they observe of me when I am in the middle of my improvisation. How would someone like me recreate a story of a girl in a green furry coat and a wrong day’s ticket in hand, queuing for a bus to Edinburgh early Friday morning, with really strong thigh muscles from doing shifts for Deliveroo to earn money for travel; Or maybe a girl that probably packed just before leaving, as the zips of a backpack are half undone. On the other hand, she couldn’t have forgotten to wrap a scarf around her head, as, of course, that’s definitely more important than wrapping one around the neck!
How would I know that about me? I guess, I wouldn’t. And even if others do, it’s all just a matter of a good interpretation.
