[You think your average juror is King Solomon?]
Well, I've finally digested it, tossed it about in my head and turned it over in my mouth. It doesn't taste sweet, or bittersweet, or any other word one could use to describe "The Notebook." It's not sour, either, though, just ... different. Like last week when I had Indian food for the first time - I've never tasted anything like it. Nothing even comes close.
I am actually pleased that my plight has provided you with inspiration. I'm not even too proud to admit that it's just what I need, scream for off rooftops in a cold black night: A hero on a prose steed. The discerning eye of a writing Imam, someone who can pull up on a golden ship and help me clean up the mess I've made of the clean seashore. Someone to see through the jumble of words and problems that plague my wakeful mind as I watch my eyelids.
You have absolutely pegged me, but the problem I do have is that it's anonymous, making me feel like someone's watching through the window, or I showed up naked at school, or, more simply, that feeling you get when you walk up to a group of people and they all fall silent, look to the floor. But mostly it is frustrating to have the abominable snowman dirty up the carpet with his big, Yeti feet and then vanish, so no one believes me that I saw it, I know it's out there and I have proof. He's showed me some magic trick pulled from the shelves of a cluttered shrine to kiddom, but he refuses to show me how to do it - only it's not just a Chinese finger trap, it's my life. I would desperately welcome someone who understood it, could decipher the symbols I've been scratching my head over for years.
In short, my reaction is inconclusive. It has yet to motivate me to take any form of action, but it has the wheels turning, like every philosophy class you've ever taken: You take an idea here, nod to a thought there but, ultimately, they are just lofty ideas that you can't catch, elusive wisps of something half-remembered or half-forgotten, and frustrating because of it. You want to gobble them up, swallow them whole, take them as your own and make them a part of you. But they aren't my own, just another step towards them.
And after all that, and a gulp of fresh air, I can't leave off without the most important thing, probably the only pure emotion I've felt about it: gratitude. So? Thank you.
[He calls himself abominable! Can you believe that? Does he seem abominable to you? Why can’t they call him the Adorable Snowman or the Agreeable Snowman, for crying out loud?]