Some days I think about you more than others.
People don’t understand it’s not your face. It’s your aura, it’s how you exude intelligence with everything you say.
It’s how you represent my love for a subject that has run deep, with its tentacles wrapped tightly around my innermost desires, squeezing like a baby’s little fist, a sensation that confounds me and makes me question my plans. Is it a calling?
One thing I fear is that my interest will be washed away just like my passion for many people – and things – in my life, going as fast as it first came, never to be seen again, leaving in its wake a scene of disruption, confusion and lack of meaning.
It’s your laugh too, your concern that casts a shadow of doubt on my conviction that you couldn’t care less about teaching. Sometimes I forget. That while teaching is not primary it does not mean that teaching is a burden. Some people do see some meaning in teaching.
You make me feel believed, noticed, alive. Seeing you again I feel the warm embrace of what I used to love – and still do love – which leaves deep in me an indescribable feeling of content.
People say arrogance follows competence and intelligence, but they haven’t met you. They haven’t seen your nods that reassure one they aren’t as stupid as they think- however unintended such an effect is.
You probably don’t care, and you’ll probably forget my name in a couple of years. I’m just one of the many, the sea of faces that is mutable, an unidentifiable mass of people, swimming into the depths of your memories which will remain forgotten. Forever.
But forever still I’ll be grateful to you.