falcongrrl

Autobiography In Four Words

for Jacob

Nothing in particular, really

is how he began
to describe himself.
A clue, had we known to look.
He never wanted us
to see the self he buried.

Personal stuff will be kept
to a relative minimal.

He kept his word.

I'm just a thirty-something
software developer
by profession,
a frustrated philosopher by nature.

Was.

I started this live-journal
to act as a muse of sorts
with my personal studies,
and also
to help cultivate friendships.

He solicited mine
unobtrusively
with teasing bits of information.
"I don't like paging first,"
he said once.
"I don't want to bother you."

"I'm not bothered," I said.

In dreams I say more,
missing affection redeemed
in the chatter of my fingertips.
In dreams I find
the secret algorithm
assigning proper values
to the variables of his life.

I'll post ideas on things I am reading
as the ideas come to me.

He read and loved my writing.
I never knew why.
I wrote of depression;
he felt compelled to answer.
"I too suffer from this malady...
Are you depressed when you write?
I'll wager you are not."
His industrious ant
gently chided my grasshopper
to use both hands at the keyboard.
I tried to take his advice,
to write,
but didn't.
Life went on...
then didn't.

I'll also post stuff
I worked on previously
when I'm too lazy
to post something new.

The word lazy makes me laugh:
he wasn't.
Coding, learning, writing, thinking.
He prized others' observations
more than his own, and
wasn't afraid to say so.
He praised those souls
whose thoughts bounded ahead
in leaps of faith and fancy,
even as he trudged along,
slowly following each line
to methodical conclusion.

Any comments are warmly welcomed.

I wish that I had given them.
Asked more questions,
had more answers.
I wish I would have known
there would be time
(and not assumed).

I'll try to keep
personal problems and angst
to zero.

He did.

The silence should have spoken
but didn't.

He lost his job.
And stepping aside,
removed himself
from our thoughts
so softly
we didn't notice
until it was too late.

And I'm sure
he would never, ever want
to be mourned
though every word I write is his
in faith and admonition.

He never wanted us to see
the self he buried.

Nothing
in
particular
really