WOE IS ME

WARNING: May contain traces of license/hyperbole and cliche and uses the word Jesus.

A child with sticky fingers I was loathed to give it up. This thing, word-horde (this is a real thing by the way if you weren't there). Filled with (barely sampled and now coveted) knowledge and functionality. Gah! And besides this I was mr brown sitting there useless with a scattered communist mind legislating truth and regulations of various origin. Drinking coffee at this hour meant it could take a while to get to sleep. And Stephen Fry is evidently a toff. Yay. At that point toff meant privileged class with a self-deprecating thing. I now see, as a definition, that actually is quite close.

We left without ceremony but in general good humour, I think, and as a group moved down the street. People were talking about stuff and I was thinking about my car. It was in the opposite direction. That was when one of the group left to speak to someone recognised in the dark. Actually it was more of a thing than a one (in a way). A girl, confused, who clearly couldn't see straight, was slumped along a street bench one arm hanging over the back. Her friend was with her, holding up a bottle of water, trying to give her a drink. The friend from our group had stopped and gone back to see if the girl was ok. We waited. As Jesus-friend returned gift-friend offered that I read the book thing first. I replied, "Nah I'll just buy another one."

My money reply stood beside the Jesus action all empty or different. Making me realise how I now walked about selfishly trying to see nothing. Collecting stuff. Whereas I used to be different, aware as possible and (mostly for danger but) sometimes would even recognise something that I could, in someway, do to help or change for the better, and then 10% of the time, have the courage or good nature to do it.

Now if my sad childishness hasn't put you off. BEFORE ALL THIS as I (me, yes!) was circling the streets looking for a carpark. Friday night. Not being very selfish, just thinking. Thinking about how family language has its subtleties that even a keen outsider, though they may pick up on them, would most likely be in no way able to decipher or understand. In all the certainty of meaning and communication. I (me, yay!) then had an epiphany that that's what it must be like in the ultimate polymath club (stop me if this is sounding crazy, I have a feeling this is all unravelling.) For a quick example I imagine that Leonardo da Vinci and Albert Einstein could have traded ideas like that. I apologise to any geniuses reading this. I'm going. Actually what I'm saying is that I felt like I could imagine the feeling they felt as they easily traded ideas rather than the usual perspective from grass below the mountain/tower staring up. Bitterly able to recognise my lowly stature. I could imagine a part of their level that was possibly true. Just trust me. Hope this doesn't sound too bad humanist.