He Didn’t Notice at First

He didn’t notice at first. It started six years ago, the long slow process that entered his consciousness, like a drip from a leaking tap, constantly in the background until something focuses the mind to its existence.

She was like that, constantly in the background, not intruding on his life, for the feeling at first was one of ambivalence, the satisfaction of good conversation once or twice a week but no more. At first the pages in the book were mostly empty, only words, the sentences not constructed, the story not formed. The life spark was almost inconceivable but the awaking had begun back then. His life up until then had mostly been unremarkable. The years after youth had gradually sapped the enjoyment of living. Routine and predictability had replaced opportunity and spontaneity.

It started like most: marriage, kids, mortgage but mediocracy and failures followed. No one’s fault, every one’s fault, who knows. In the end it didn’t matter, life was meandering towards its inevitable conclusion, the river was running dry. Meaning to what? Then… from the deep void she entered.

The words started to arrange themselves. The faint glow of enlightenment pervaded the darkness.

Contact became more frequent as the days, weeks and years passed by. Similarities became more stark too: innate intelligence, insecurities, ways of perception, stubbornness, the laughter, the smiles, the sadness, all manner of things created the glue of bondage. The words were making sentences.
Long discussions on important topics of no consequence flourished as the story developed. It wasn’t significant as the need to be together strengthened to the point that nothing else really mattered for life was now two on a blank canvas waiting to paint the final landscape together.

Is the story complete? No, but for the journey… He can’t wait to find out.


2 thoughts on “He Didn’t Notice at First

  1. I love this – I can so relate to it! You have told the writer’s life – the secret passion, the affair with words and flow and seaming of scenes, characters, doings, thoughts and the stuff that happens between the lines and while walking the dog, driving, or sitting on the pot and realizing your world, once so mundane, has burst open – fresh as ripened fruit, a dandelion’s umbrella-topped seeds meeting a breeze that knows no boundaries, or time. Authenticity requires imagination, courage, and letting the rivers flow. I salute you, oh brother-of-writer-soul.


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