Relativity, Speaking

Something about thirty has given me words I've never had before.

When I was younger, when I was more forthcoming, more trusting, very rarely did I do the writing. I did the talking, I did the nurturing, I did the giving. Unfortunately, I trusted the wrong people. Millions of words, lost.

I regret every single word I have not told you, but now I am a writer. I write--pictures, poems, stories, essays, plays. All full of images. (You, me, us.) All full of regret. Regret that I did not trust my instantaneous trust. Pre-emptive regret for the explaining I may never do.

Why never? Because. Just because. Because how long will it keep coming? Wells run dry at some point, and my well and your well--well, they're just not well-synched. My regret is your obliviousness. Two weeks for me is a day to you. My physics teacher spoke mostly Russian, but time dilation was one concept I didn't need explained.

Maybe, we were twins. We are twins. But we are separated. You are on a rocket, approaching the speed of light. I am here on earth. Your clock seems normal. To you. You expect I am living at the same velocity. You expect there is plenty of time. Will be plenty of time. But my life just keeps ticking, and in your place are words.

Won't you be surprised. When you return, all you'll find--in the place I once was, next to the place you never knew you had--will be a pile of scripts, a handmade book of poems, and this.

I ask myself: should that make me happy?