“Oh, you still write?” he asked.
I nodded, yes.
“Hmm, interesting. I remember you used to write,” he said.
I nodded, yes, more slowly but didn’t reply.
He walked away.
I stood up to gather my notebooks and pens, then walked into my room and closed the door.
I wasn’t upset anymore; that he didn’t know I never really stopped writing; that he didn’t know me; that he’d never known me.
I was happy that I knew me.
Sometimes it takes a hundred tattered notebooks, a thousand poems of sorrow and a million strokes of passion, to meet yourself and embrace the quality of your soul, to know it may never be translated to paper and to be at peace with the language of your understanding.