I know you’re there.
You sit there withering away – deteriorating day after day. You yearn for attention I cannot afford to give.
How come we are told that finding as many versions of you as we can is imperative when none of us have the time to spend with you? Is it so that we have something to do when we retire, or is it just to make us more interesting as individuals?
“Oh, yeah. I love doing that. I did it that one time seven years ago. It’s my hobby, really. How many times? Oh, only once. Haven’t had the time to do it since. But I would really love to do it again soon.”
When does something that you like to do transform into you?
As a kid, we are told that finding interests and hobbies are so important. No one tells us that once we become adults, hobbies are null and void. There is no time; there is no possibility.
Why must you treat us so?
I have about ten different versions of you festering in my cupboards at home – drawing, sewing, origami, music, just to name a few. And yet, you tease me. You stick out your tongue and sneer, “don’t you wish …”, “wouldn’t you love …”, “I’m over here …”
How dare you be so cruel when you know full well that I cannot get to you? How dare you feel guilty for letting my skills go to waste?
When I am able to be with you, it’s like no time has passed. I get wrapped up in the moment, I produce some wonderful things. I am reminded why I was drawn to you in the first place. You wrap me up, keep me warm, ensure that I can’t be free of you. You remind me of the times in my life that I look upon with fondness. You make sense of my world, if only for a minute.
I guess what I am saying is, hobbies, you may sit by the wayside for most of the year – feeling neglected and alone. But think of that quality time we spend together. Think of the joy.
Some day, not today, I will be able to spend more time with you. And, when I do, it’ll be great.
There you have it, guys.
Bit of a different type of letter, this fine Tuesday.
Come back Saturday for more.
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