Originality Speaks

Sometimes I feel like I have no original thoughts. Is that weird? I know, I know. The thought I just had.... the sentence I just formed. Those are original thoughts because they came from me and no one else has probably spoken them in this exact way.

But no, I mean original, original thoughts. Thoughts and ideas that mean something. How often do our thoughts, or the things that we say, hold great meaning?

Sometimes I'm sitting surrounded by people, and I feel overwhelmed, as if I have nothing important to say. I feel like I say generic, expected words and sentences, and I want to be more. But then I think about the last truly original thing someone said to me. Thinking of the last particularly honest thing--and I can't.

And I find my thoughts drifting back to my grandfather. His inability to speak simply because he cannot hear or see. Imagine not being able to use your lips, your vocal chords simply because yours ears and eyes are disabled. He would give anything to hear generic, simple speech. To be able to even catch a glimpse of a word dripping off someone's lips; to hear the most insignificant word would be part of his heaven I know he dreams of.

And I'm thankful for the moments when I can hear about someone's pitiful day that was probably better than mine. Or make small talk with the crippled professor in the elevator, whose limbs are so tired but, still, he asks about my night class.

Maybe tiny pieces of honesty lie intertwined in our most generic thoughts and ideas. If we look beyond the words themselves and take a moment to examine the person behind the words... their reason for even speaking.

Originiality, perhaps, is in the eye of the beholder. My grandfather would hear or see any word formed and be gracious. Perhaps I should be, too.