Obscurity allows a writer the freedom to let go of the words so they can dance upon the pages with abandonment. They can describe places I have never been and people I have never met, people waiting for me to give them life with a metaphorical pen and an imagination that soars from not worrying about what the critics have to say. I can even choose the words I want to use. The occasional f♪ck will startle the reader and make me laugh with its impertinence for appearing among the beauty of my words.
In my obscurity, I can observe people while hidden in the alphabet. The other day I saw a man begging on the street corner. I asked him why he didn’t work, and he told me his back hurt. I then began to list my ailments, starting with arthritis, diabetes, neurological annoyances, and ending with an intense allergy to mold, which causes me to wheeze on damp mornings. I went on to say sometimes mold spores attack my nervous system and allows my brain to enjoy fuzzy moments of respite from thinking too hard. I leaned into every aliment I’d had since childhood and described them with a delicious, rhapsodic beat that caused us both to swoon from the sheer enjoyment of a woman gone wild with her words. We both began to laugh. He offered me the spare change he had collected that day saying, I was worse off than he had ever thought to be. Again, I laughed and told him I hoped his day would be imbued with the loveliest of words.
Immediately upon arriving home, I put the beggar man on a sheet of paper and admired his perseverance. I possess a penchant for collecting beggars and romanticizing their way of being. They all have stories to tell and they have been to places I have yet to travel. They worry about today and let themselves slide easily into tomorrow. The beggars of my imagination, like me, enjoy the luxury of obscurity. They hide behind another more serious demeanor, possibly one of sadness. Not unlike my own.