The Curse of Observance

Finding Yourself in Someone Else's Story

Gratefully, this isn’t another Sunday where the following three to six minute read is a puddle of unfiltered thoughts, slightly transformed by pebbles of introspection.

I’m not out in the city, surrounded by the scent of fresh coffee, the sounds of overzealous (and overpriced) taxis driving around excited tourists on the way to Central Park, and the harsh winds throwing strands of my week-old french bob onto my vaseline covered lips.

Nope, instead it’s a quarter past 10, and I’m writing from under the comfort of my newest linen sheets, cotton pjs, and a month-old honey mask that I hope doesn’t break me out within the hour. There’s a cup of warm raspberry mint tea in hand, as well as a butter croissant, and the melodies of Mayra Andrade’s “Afeto” in the background.

by Hilda Palafox

I hope you all know that whenever I write in great detail, it’s for no other reason besides that I have the opportunity to do so.

Oftentimes, my days are so quickly paced that the details only become clear when I revisit them – so I tend to focus intensely on specific moments. For instance, I remember the bus ride on my way to work one morning that allowed me to observe a random young mother of two, a fatigued smile on her face as she watched her young children blow bubbles.

I was on my way to work when the bus reached a light near Central Park, where the boundaries between the park and the city blur; people simply exist within nature, and the leaves fall gracefully. Just outside, a son and a daughter were playing, the daughter blowing bubbles with precision. She blew once, then twice, then two more times, and went for a fifth – That is, until the young boy decided it was his turn to join in.

Unfortunately, I can’t describe how he handled this duty because he accidentally dropped the bubbles as soon as his stubby fingers could grab them. I’d paused the podcast I’d been listening to, finding myself a bit lost in the unfolding drama, although I would’ve heard nothing from inside this electronic express bus. I only know that the daughter paused for only a second, sheer panic growing on her mother’s face as if she knew what to expect.

It’s as if she, the mother, expected it to happen in 3 seconds, and to her surprise, the young girl waited until 5 seconds to start crying hysterically. Her cheeks were red, and her breathing labored within her distress. She stood up, perhaps preparing to comfort her daughter, but before she could, the light turned green, and suddenly, they were no longer within sight.

Throughout the rest of the ride, I couldn’t help but wonder. Did the little boy apologize? Did the little girl forgive him? Did the mother distract them both with a morning walk through Central Park? Or did they simply head home?

I vividly recall discussing the story with my coworkers, laughing as we threw questions at each other during our breaks: Whose bubbles were they? Was he the little sibling? Why was she blowing bubbles at 8 am? But that’s the only thing I remember about that day. I can’t tell you whether it’s the same day I walked down the block and had Chinese for lunch or up the block and had Caribbean.

Whether it was the day I wore my bob in its freshest state, in all-black attire paired with my trench coat as it had been on the forecast for rain, or the day I almost cried because having straight hair is a burden, so I threw my hair in a ponytail that fell apart because I’d cut four inches of it for the bob to work and forgot my hoodie.

As my days become fuller, the details become more and more vague. I recall instances rather than the full picture, and it leads me to question, “What makes an instance stick?” I mean, surely, nothing about a small accident over bubbles should’ve left that much of an imprint, especially as I recall nothing else of that day. But now more than ever, I think about what I said in one of my earliest entries, "An Unintentional Muse."

A fleeting interaction might have the power to reshape their thoughts about a personal situation or experience—even though they may never voice it. The true scope of your influence might elude you, but you're a chapter in someone else's story—a fragment of their journey.

Excerpt from An Unintentional Muse, click here for full reading.

When I wrote that line, it never occurred to me that even after my observation, this “someone else”... well, their story continues. We rarely consider the impact of our small gestures, like a random smile to a stranger or a simple ‘have a nice day.’ Similarly, we often overlook how our moments of distaste or discontent might affect those around us.

We don’t realize how many people remember certain interactions, with our face or voice lingering in their memories. Nor do we know how many people may reference or recall those moments, long after they’ve passed – because they've become part of their own story.

This thought started whilst reading the book I mentioned about a month ago, which I confess I may not finish. It was briefly mentioned in "In Bloom," titled "The Mythmakers" by Keziah Weir. The book follows the story of a young journalist who stumbles upon a short story inexplicably mirroring her own life.

Without delving into its details, in the opening chapter, you encounter a narrator content with life yet yearning for more. She desires to leave a lasting impact, and in a twist of fate, she reads an article from a long-forgotten muse turned associate, realizing that this individual has written a short story based on their initial encounter.

In essence, they met at a party about a decade prior, and that was it. A strong impression, one conversation, and 10 years to ponder. This revelation raises profound questions about the ownership of stories.

It's almost surreal to consider that a moment of one's life could be written by another, especially when that other party shared the moment, albeit unknowingly. But it happens, and I’ve just shown that as I recounted a brief interaction involving a mother and her children, where I, a random stranger on a bus, observed. I may never cross paths with them again, or perhaps I will. Either way, through this simple observation, it became a moment within my own narrative.

As both a writer and an avid lover of stories, I've grappled with the balance of revealing my life to others. It's not just about my own discretion; it's about understanding that exposing parts of myself also reveals facets of others' lives. When my friends read my words, they reflect on our shared experiences, and there's a weight that comes with sharing, even when I refrain from delving into intricate details. My life is the focal point of my storytelling, both my greatest asset and liability.

Every story we tell, every detail we reveal, carries a piece of us – and sometimes, unintentionally, pieces of others too. It's akin to that conversation with a close friend about a mutual acquaintance, where you realize too late they don’t know the backstory. Or when two friends from different circles meet, and you have to carefully navigate what you've shared about each of them to avoid awkwardness or unintended betrayals.

For artists, especially writers, this dilemma is magnified by the vulnerability of exposing ourselves through our work. We share our experiences in hopes of connecting with others, but in doing so, we open ourselves up to judgment and scrutiny – not only regarding our own lives, but also the lives of those around us.

Since my last post, I’ve been personally mentioned or referenced in two (maybe three) other newsletters for my musings. While I understood the concept of being an unintentional muse to a fault, it’s only within these last few weeks that I’ve realized that while my story/life is my own, in the public eye, it’s also shared. My words have unintentionally inspired or sparked conversations on themes or topics I sloppily wrote about on bus rides to work, through blurred vision at obscene hours, or in transcripted voice notes with inaudible noise.

I've assisted some in finding closure in their past and others in seeking new beginnings in their future, and it’s a badge of honor I carry, even when I think I’ve set it aside.

Anyways.

It’s time for me to finish breakfast and hopefully get some reading in. No profound sentiments for the week, but by the next post, it’ll be May. Stay safe and steady this week.

Best.

S