If only I’d been born in 1965.
Walking along the stream in the park, the only thing on her mind being the simplicity of existence–how you can do anything or nothing with your life, all for the same result–she stopped and stared.
The cover of her favorite book glowed from within the hands of a man on a bench. Her body had ceased all movement–at the mercy of a subconscious command from some unknown location in her brain. The man behind the book looked up–she registered his action, just barely–yet still she stared.
It didn’t matter, for the book–or maybe the book’s dead author–began speaking to her. From where, she did not know, but she listened. Rapt.
“Written word is the only true form of communication. It gives one time to think before making a statement or observation, yet it allows one to be truly vulnerable, with no censorship and no one watching over their shoulder.
And there can be no human connection without communication, thus with my words printed in books scattered across the world, I can speak to you as a nonliving entity. But you must seek living entities to fulfill your need of being understood. And, sometimes, the best way to do that is with a stranger, someone who has no prior concept of you. Someone who sees only what you’ve become and are becoming.
It’s intellectual, but you also cannot think too much. If a person feels right to you, they probably are. In this case, you need only one person in order to feel contentment for the rest of your life. Remember: you can’t do it alone.”
Slowly, her eyes began to focus–she hadn’t realized until now that the world had become hazy–and saw that the man on the bench was still looking at her. But this time, he was glowing, not the book. The book meant nothing anymore; this man meant everything. His grey eyes and silver hair felt like her personal Polaris. He was true north.
She knew that his thoughts mirrored her own. His coolness was drawn to her brown warmth. He was the first to speak.
“I never read and I never sit still for too long, but this book and that bench were the only things I felt I had the energy for today. But now, I think that has changed.”
She nodded, no longer pondering the fickleness of life but knowing that she had one true purpose: to love and be loved by him. Love, the utmost form of understanding. Love for a man from an older generation, a man who shared a piece of her soul.
