Funny Things

A yearbook is a funny thing. Maybe funny isn't the right word. Most of the pages don't matter. Someone hands you the thing, and you aren't to read a single hand-written word. Everything you are holding in your hands belongs to the memory of the ownder, and it is strictly unshareable. You make your mark. If it's just a classmate you're acquainted with, something along the lines of "I loved being in (class) with you! Good luck next year at (school) !" will do. They are empty messages, thoughtlessly written to get through the stack, but you want countless amounts of such messages in there anyways. Sometimes, they'll branch out and insert "I'll never forget the time (teacher) yelled at us for (unacceptable behavior) ! Good times!"

Either way, it is the seeming novels that matter. Pages written in a tiny script in at least half an hour. They are the most honest messages friends ever need to tell each other. Such honest, though, only comes written as a parting messag. Such honesty never witnesses more than two pairs of eyes, the writer and the friend. There are millions, undoubtedly, of such messages scrawled through misty eyes, and no onebut one person will ever read them. They are the greatest secrets of our lifetime, and we keep them stacked in the basement only to be pored over by curious children years later. They do not bother reading the most valuable messages. Those honest words are safe because they are long and irrelavent. Not sad to them, not funny. Your kids weren't there, your kids don't remember. Maybe soon, given another couple years, you won't either.

But I'm not there yet, I've still got time to cherish memories only my eyes will register.

And before it's too late, I want to thank those that took the time to etch letters onto my pages (and with them, memories in my mind) - they may only make sense to one person, but that does not make them insignificant.