They spend more time alone than almost anyone,
Able to stand long hours in line
Without seeming to get bored.
They stare at, apparently nothing, when you are speaking,
And they don’t seem to listen or hear,
And you feel very much ignored.
In the middle of a sentence,
Or concert…or play…or meal…
They suddenly whip out their pencils and scribble down a word or two.
And if you love them, you feel hurt,
And sad…and blind…or deaf…
Because you don’t really comprehend the things they do.
They can rhapsodize for hours about things that never were,
That won’t happen…that can’t happen.
Things that simply cannot ever be.
And you’re surprised that, because they love you,
They are hurt, and they feel alone;
Since it is you who cannot see…
All the wondrous wanderings of their imagination
As it skims over life…as it refashions people.
As it manufactures magical things.
They’re involved in the miraculous miracle of creation.
In their made-up worlds,
They are the queens and kings.
It is to these worlds that they extend an invitation.
And with an artist’s elation, it is you that they invite.
To view their paintings…their sculpture….their poems…their plays.
Their work of arduous hours and days.
Their music…their operas…their choreography.
And how they envision their dream-life to be.
They spend more time alone, it’s true.
Than average people do.
And they don’t seem to need your love,
Quite as much as you would like them to.
But it’s because they are, who and how they are…
That you’ll give them all you’ve got to give.
You’ll be there when they need you.
You’ll love them, and you’ll understand.
That you…you are the great receivers.
When you give, you get back many fold.
From the artists…
From the Makebelievers.
Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2015
Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com.