Through Other’s Eyes by J.R.Biery

Blog Post 13

I’ve been asked why I write. I don’t like my husband’s answer to that question. I am not a compulsive nut, well at least not all of the time.

I write to try to make sense of the world and the people in it. Sometimes they do things that make absolutely no sense at all, but you know they think they are doing the right thing. Trying to understand their logic or lack of it fascinates me.

As mentioned a few times before, I’ve become a big Pinterest addict the last month or so. I’ve always loved collecting, especially rocks, paintings, and small figures. Storing beautiful objects in cyber-space is the way to go. Absolutely no dusting required.

Some things are easy to collect. There are no end of angels and sunsets, and cute animals acting funny. It is hard to find great images of people laughing and having fun (wish there were a lot more of these). Of course, most are of children and old people who ignore the rest of the world and just have fun.

Sometimes I will find a person who has pinned so many wonderful things, I want to pin all of them. Actually have been blocked by one person – I guess for pinning too many of her treasures. Funny, since all of her images are still floating right there, but I guess I understand. Like characters in a story, they can seem real.

I love it when I open the board and see someone has pinned thirty of my images, or started following several of my boards. I think these people are sympathetic souls. If we were at a party, we would get acquainted instantly and never run out of things to talk about.

It is a strange world when we can share so much with strangers and yet live more and more in the isolation of our own minds.

I’m only going to post one of the dozens that I pinned today. This sculpture, with the strange title “1 half of an apple.” I love the simplicity of it, the deeper notion that we are paired with a soul mate, like seeds in the same pod. I wonder why the man is awake and the woman is not and where he is gong and why. So simple, so complex. My mind can spin a million tales from such a small thing. But of course, I should be writing.

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