I’ve been tweeting a lot, but not writing lately. I guess for me tweeting a lot is churning out two/three tweets per week. I know some folks can keep ’em coming all day, which is a gift I can’t attest to having. Anxiety keeps me from sharing too much, or saying something which may cause offense.
Writing is my favorite. Mostly studying people, or rather the people I pass by in the course of a day. Whether it’s my unforgivingly loud neighbors to the right of our house (they have a serious addiction to blasting reggaton from their truck), or the quiet neighbors to our left (the wife tends to her rose garden when her arthritis allows it; the husband walks the dog every morning just before the sun comes up).
Then there’s the married couple across the street. When I pull in from work the husband is often sitting in their garage, a bit disheveled looking, with the same white t-shirt he wore the day before. I don’t know what he’s working on, but we say hi to each other and I walk inside before a “How are you?” can be uttered. I like that he seems to be okay with that.
Sometimes when I’m down on myself for feeling mediocre, I remember I care enough to write about these seemingly trivial moments I collect. And that none of these people I meet, or observe, are mediocre to me. They’re all living and breathing on this earth during the same time I’m living and breathing on this earth; and I love that.