Mmm. I have lots of thoughts. Most go flying around in my head, never to be put down on paper, but regardless I somehow remember a lot of them. Yesterday, for instance, I was driving downtown and passed this park near the side of the road. Sitting on a picnic table bench was a women with her head in her hands. She was doubled over, and a baby stroller stood beside her. Near the slide stood a man, hands stuffed in his pockets. I glimpsed a little kid running around underneath the monkey bars and swings and other playground stuff children love so much.
Then it was gone. I blinked a few times, and pondered. Was the lady crying? Had she and the man argued? Was she just tired from a day out with her kid in the hot sun? Did she have a headache, or a migraine? Was the man of any relation to the women, and if so, what? Her husband, brother? Or was he a friend? Was he just about to go to her and comfort her in her fatigued state? Whose was the little boy?
I shook my head, wondering why on earth I could make such assumptions and fancy up anything of the sort. Yet I found myself doing the exact thing again, ten minutes later…
It was a man this time, an old man strolling across a bridge over a river. (Embellishing his description just a bit,) he wore a bright red jacket and white shorts, and had on his head one of those old navy blue fishing caps. He walked slowly, and I wondered what had brought him to this point. Was he walking to the grocery store? Was he walking because it was the least humid time of day? (Though it was still quite warm; I couldn’t believe he was wearing that windbreaker.) Was he simply walking and reflecting on the long, fulfilling life God had granted him?
Minutes later I realized what I was doing and turned my attention to flipping through the radio stations. But, I just wonder – am I the only person out there who does something like that? Is it just because I like to write, and ask the most random questions – is it just who I am to ponder strange things as the examples above? Does any one else do that? At those times, I sometimes feel I ought to write a story about them. The people, I mean. The lady holding her head, for instance. It could be a very tragic story – for instance, she could have just received a letter from her long lost love over the ocean, depicting that during his hard life he had found another who was there for him, and that he was sorry, but he would not be returning; or she could have developed a tumor at a young age and never realized it until that very evening, and then she found her whole world crashing down on her. Perhaps that man was her best friend, a man she loved but with whom she could never spend the rest of her life because her ailment would soon take that precious gift from her.
Or maybe I’m what my older brother says I am: the definition of Weird. Even so, all of us are weird or odd or strange in our own ways. If we weren’t, this world wouldn’t be the interesting, terrible, confusing, horrible, laughable, astonishing, lively place it is.