I’ve been digging a hole for quite a while now.

The figure probably stands at just above seven years. For reference, my twentieth birthday is four months from now. Use your subtraction skills and that brings us back to about thirteen years old: the acne years.

Actually, who am I kidding… I still have acne.

Let’s place it at seventh grade—Middle School (alternatively Junior High School). I had finally outgrown the day-care of lesser grades and found myself stuck in a collective of sexualizing backpacks and bra-straps, surrounded by windowless concrete and cynical teachers.

But seventh grade introduced more than just social classes and self-consciousness. For the first time in my life, I realized there were expectations. Well…I felt the expectations. It probably wasn’t until high school that I could identify them.

An aside: my thoughts on the plight of the middle-class suburban...

I’m a runner.

Well…I run…

My family has a long and proud tradition of running marathons. My brother, my father, my uncle…my other uncle…even my grandmother have all completed (and continue to complete) race after race. As for myself, I’m not quite up to that caliber.

Don’t get me wrong, I love running. At least…I love the past tense of the verb. The after-run is where it’s at. That sense of achievement mixed with a pleasant dose of Dopamine and Adrenaline. Plus the encouraging thought, “If I can run nine miles, then what the hell can’t I do?”

But I’m not here to endorse running and testify to all of its benefits (there certainly are some, but probably not as many as you’ve heard). I’m just here to talk about people.

As an outdoor runner, it’s practically inevitable that you’ll pass (or be passed) by a variety of individuals. For some people, crossing another’s path is...

for the quiet writer…

…

You and I are quite different.

You speak loud and fast, but with inherent eloquence. I plan my words like a presentation, rehearsing them to exhaustion.

When…if I ever manage to actually produce coherent speech, it’s unnatural, insincere, apathetic, or cold.

But I want to share my thoughts; I think they’re worth listening to…

Even if your ideas are mundane, unoriginal, or lack a single shred of insight, people can’t help but stop and listen. It’s the way your words pour out—like striking, aged wine. Yours is the booming voice of humanity. Commanding and full of life, how can we help but give it our full attention?

Mine is meek. I could hardly fill a cup with my voice, let alone a room.

Emotion, anecdote, pathos, fluidity—you are an orator. You capture us with your stories, break us with your humor, strand us with your questions, sway us with...