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Two weeks later and we're both writing away at this coffee house, temple of our ritual. I've grown comfortable with his presence, and though my intrigue with him sometimes proves distracting, I've found that his absence distracts me even more.
During this silent encounter, I watch as my mystery poet throws away his paper plate and used napkin. Yet I also clearly observe that he leaves another napkin on the table. Is this for me? Why else would he leave detritus scattered behind him, having, other than his dress, proven himself a cleanly fellow?
I bite the tip of my pen meditatively in the wake of his departure. And then I'm up, fetching what I have a gut feeling must be a note for me.
Well; and, of my limited exposure, this was my favorite gift so far. Though still brimming with questions, I couldn't help but respond to the words on the thin paper. From my private journal in which I meditate on meaningful (to me) poetry:
"This speaks to something deep within. This somehow reminds me of me. It's not wishful thinking, really; it's a gut reaction to the poem.
Who dared create me?
That's not a question asked very often. The most classic representation is of the soul railing against God. Why me? Why do I have to be this way? Why do I have to suffer this? But my question deals away with the thought that I could somehow be other than I am in some other way. It cuts to the heart, and it is full of rage.
I am a misshapen creature. Yet do not take this as self-pity or me to be a self-described monster. I am not. Yet myself and my society are an ill-match. This illfit creates and fosters conflict and neurosis. And thereby am "I", "me", "tyger" born.
But, as is my nature, I will not submit. I will sally forth into this
tepid world and I will burn bright. Some may dread my coming, but that
is the nature of those who are not living."
At this point, allow me to qualify that I am a shy person and not in the habit of bothering self-absorbed people. So this, then, is why I had been content to suffer the mystery and allow this man the dubious act of setting the pace of interaction. I was simply another wanderer, picking up his thoughts where he dropped them.