I often wonder during my daily travels between the sun and moon, what my role is in others’ lives. Where am I found in their ocean-length autobiography? Could I have been dedicated as a single chapter in my childhood friend’s life? Was I the period that marked off the end of a paragraph in one of my friend’s love affairs? Did I fit in as the space between a stranger’s sentence describing his commute on a Friday night? Could it be that I formed the title in one of the most dramatic scenes in my mother’s story? Perhaps I was swimming in the margins of my Alma mater’s history, graduating to frame the next paragraph that speaks about my generation and how much we have potential as career scrappers. Did I became the page itself in someone else’s adventure, absorbing each letter then letting those black stains be the one appreciated and noticed, but not the blemished paper? Where do I fit in, I wonder?
A better question would be: where are you in mine?