I had no idea. How could I? All this time, I’d been the one writing for the people in my life, be it letters, notes, poems, short stories, online posts. I never thought of the weight my words carried, in part because I kept giving them away. I never gave much thought to their impact, even to the ones the words were aimed at, the ones I had crafted my word sketches, stories, and portraits for.
I only knew that if upon reading, they felt momentarily blessed, encouraged, lifted up, then my words had done their job. Sure, others have written stuff about me; simple word descriptions in cards and treasured notes, even via abbreviated entries on FaceBook, that most ephemeral of real estate in cyberspace.
Then, when it was least expected, the daily post of a blog I subscribe to appeared in my inbox. It was an elegant little piece, a lot like the Little Black Dresses I adore and have hanging in my wardrobe. Short, simple, well-structured, and which make me look a tad better than usual. Like I was going somewhere wonderful. At first, it didn’t occur to me that I was the subject of the post. But then it hit me, and it felt like the time i had been invited out to high tea on a grey and dreamy afternoon; astonishingly good.
Even the post’s title thrilled me: Unicorn. Then came a realization, a dawning of something. That when someone writes about you, it feels like you’ve been given a gift, made precious because it came from the depths of memory, time, and thought. It reveals something of the writer and subject in ways somewhat indescribable. You feel honoured.
And the most surprising part, the part that got me, was that it became a part of my consciousness, the way *I* saw myself, because of how somebody else saw me and took the trouble to describe it in black and white. The written word is indelible, afterall. It may fade from memory like words written in fountain pen in a note from the past, but it was never thrown out, and lays there still.