Importance

I’ve been trying to meet new people as of late. Part of growing up. Part of getting older. Part of the quarter-life crisis of thinking one will die lonely and alone and never find true love [note: dramatisation. Actually quarter-life crisis pending].

I met a new person recently. We talked, as newly-met people do, those basic things people talk about when they’re first getting to know each other. A few days of conversation here, some lines there. It’s nice, discovering a whole other world in another person, as unique as one’s own yet completely disparate. To think, that everyone has such a rich personal narrative that spans decades of life, is to make a point grander than the ones I’m going for here.

Eventually, picked apart from some threads of conversation, I was accused of believing nothing was important: a fairly scathing accusation. Blatantly untrue. Perhaps I don’t grant importance to everything conventionally important, like what people do for work, or their age, (or timely responses to messages), but there are still things for which I do.

We don’t talk anymore. Not important.

What do I consider important?

The things which show you are alive. Goals, dreams and aspirations. The buried treasures one spends their life searching for.

The habits one forces onto themselves. What one becomes by repeatedly doing.

One’s future, not one’s past.

What do I consider important?

Writing this blog post past bed time on a Sunday night, writing less than I would like, writing more than I would otherwise, imagining, creating, producing, keeping a promise to myself. Importance is whatever we ascribe it to be, as long as we ascribe. What one considers important defines them; what one is defines what they find important.

I’ll keep on with my little importances. And you keep on with yours.

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