He wondered if one ever read his stories, found them by their own seeking where he left them all in open sight and access—if ever one cared to search. It didn’t really matter, was just a curiosity, a wondering he would not drive to known answer but wrote away and aired simply to let it vent.
He’d read a book that summer, his first Kurt Vonnegut. In it, Vonnegut had written in parody and critique for all relationships that struggle, “You’re not enough people!”
If expecting, one is bound to be disappointed and disillusioned when grounded back to discovery that one will never find their everything and everyone in a single other.
It doesn’t work that way.
Venting, he wrote his mind in stories he shared alone and to all the world with little and rare response. It didn’t really matter, but it was a piece to life he desired—to share and trade thoughts, stories, ideas, and all that came to mind in thoughts and inspirations. He liked to think, share, and—even more—to listen.
It was nice to know the day-to-day and rote of patterned lives; but to feel alive and as if more than simply existing, he needed too expression of thoughts beyond the conditioned and banal; to break from the thoughts that were not really such and express contemplations of new and different levels.
“You’re not enough people.” No one is.
And finishing thought, he wondered, “Who else is there?”