Intricacies

When I write, I like to think of what other people want to read; I think of what I'd like to read and what I'd be afraid to say. I think of things that are oversaid, yet, in many instances, are not said enough. I think of what I'd like to be reminded, what I'd like to be told when I'm having a bad day. I think words and phrases that are made out of the same twenty-six letters that we all use to communicate through, and I think of an effective way to use them. I think of the things that could be said, but aren't, and I think of the things that need to said. 

Writing is complex; it's a vast, complicated realm with certain depths that even the greatest of writers haven't yet discovered. It's a confusing mess of unspoken thoughts and hesitant replies; it's a mess of things that want to be said, things that have been said, and things that should be said, and it's a universal process of communication. Writing is hard; it's time consuming and thought-provoking, and so incredibly inspiring. It's a gift, a talent, and a hobby; it's a tangled myriad of ideas and thoughts and words and phrases, and it is to be shared. 

Writing is intricate, and like writing, so are humans. Humans are intricate; humans are differerent, they're confusing, unique, and maddening, sometimes all at once. We're each so different, and like writing, we are to be shared. We are to be shared; we are each so unique in our own ways, and so are the ideas that burst from our minds. Initially, our ideas aren't similar to each other's; our first thoughts and immediate reactions are not the same as the person next to us, nor the person after.

So why, while we burrow ourselves into an endless library of books and ideas and philosophies and thoughts, do we all try so hard to become the same person? Why, when coming across something that's even the slightest bit more interesting than we are, do we dedicate our time, breath, and energy to encompass at least some aspect of that specified interesting thing? Why, after scholars upon scholars and teachers upon teachers and fathers and mothers and guardians and role models, who spend their ticking time telling us to remain grounded and to stay who we are, do we feel so disheartened with who we are?

It's a baffling thought, yet we're all guilty of it, and I've brought it upon myself, like the next person, and perhaps the person after, to remind you, as well as myself, that humans are intricate creations, and we are each to be treated as one.