It might be obvious to some, but I tend to write about the same people over and over again. Occasionally I’ll sprinkle in a straggler, someone who sparked an idea and sent me into my writing frenzy. But there are a lot of people I’ve never written about.
They’re the people who merely existed instead of changing me in some way. They popped in and out of my life without a glance. We didn’t have a negative experience, we didn’t have a positive experience, I don’t know if it could be considered an experience at all. It came and it went and it didn’t impact me either way.
They are small pieces to a very large puzzle. They barely make up a corner or a fragment of the feelings I can feel. I don’t want to say they didn’t matter, everyone in their own way matters. Every one in their own way makes a difference. It just didn’t make a difference to me.
And these people, I guess I wouldn’t call them great people. Because really kind and genuine people tend to stick in your mind. These people don’t stick anywhere in my very busy and very chaotic brain. But they’re the kind of people who ask if you’ve written about them. They only really cared for themselves, they never cared about me. I don’t blame them though, I never cared about them either.
Think about all of the people you’ve met in your life, how many of them do you actually keep around now? Even the ones you kept around for a moment, they probably didn’t stay in your life long. Those are the people I don’t write about. The people who existed and kind of just disappeared. The people who didn’t make me exceptionally happy or exceptionally sad. I’m sure someone will write about you someday, but you’re just not part of my story.