Pairs of Shoes

How interesting, the Book of Memories.
Like reaching into an ocean and pulling out a different sounding chonch each time.

Other lives through others eyes.
I feel like a painter not a writer, although painting is the weakest of my strong suits. I feel like each story is a new color to my pallete. A new blend to mix and toss like a master glazing the canvas lightly and delicately, only to find a new way to work the scheme later. Improvement for the sake of boredom.

Each misconception is a bonus color I keep hidden away.
Who I thought you were, in my cynical dreamer dreams, remains in my back pocket for use in the undoubtfully unplesant tomorrow. And if not? Then it will rest like an infant, peaceably, until needed.

How wonderous meeting new people is.