Do I have a secret hunch about how I will die?
The NYT poses the 36 questions that lead to knowing someone. So far this is my favorite.
I mean, I don’t. But I suspect it will happen at the most inconvenient time. I’ll be driving along the highway with jimmy johns in my hand. Lettuce in my lap. I’ll be in the shower in a messy, unkept house. Dishes in the sink, laundry on the floor. My loved ones will go through my items because nothing is locked. They’ll wonder what all my little scribbles are about. They’ll wonder about the books I keep and why there is a box of mismatched things on the top shelf. They’ll wonder why there are four kinds of laundry detergent in my closet.
What I love most about this little writing spot is that no one reads it. Or if they ever do, they’re far removed from me. It eliminates the worrisome barriers to writing exactly what I want. It removes the limits. But there’s something magical about being known that I am trying not to ignore. Despite how foreign and scary it is at times.
I’ll write a post about my day to day soon. But today I’ll keep the mystery alive.