If a tree falls

I am hesitant

to write in this space because

people hike to the river in order to take a picture of themselves at the river

and when I was an English major in college I couldn’t read

because I knew my laptop was tucked away in my desk drawer.

I could sense its vibrations.

I don’t want to see the trees budding in Logan Square and think about

what filter would make it pretty enough for everyone to realize how pretty my life is.

Because my life is pretty, can’t you tell by my aesthetic sensitivities?

And I am, fatally, all in or all out.

Like the time I broke up with a friend because

I couldn’t bear the in-between place of changing years, changing social circles, and the never-changing fact that my love for him would always be unrequited.

If so much of life has become public,

do I still have a private life?

Can I still be anonymous while playing truth or dare, or will everything these days be documented?

I do wonder if I am missing something by under-utilizing this outlet.

But

I would still rather a world

where things mean something

even when nobody knows they happened.