It is a mild January evening. I sit in Prince Street cafe, sipping chocolate mint roobios tea as I edit photos on my MacBook Pro. The man sitting to my left, who is also working on a laptop, begins to converse with another customer about his dabbling with art. He shows pictures of his paintings as his new-found friend affirms his talents and then states,

“I’m not an artist. Well, technically I am. I write.”

He is most likely oblivious to the fact that I am doing anything besides stare intently at my screen, but I heard him. I heard his moving words, and I have to agree with the words of a stranger.

I feel like an intruder now, but I cannot help but to listen closely to the conversation that is about to ensue.

He is sharing how he finds inspiration everywhere and how ideas just come to his mind. Windows and lights outside this cafe have led to emotionally riveting poetry. He finds that childhood memories, when related to current happenings, make powerful writings. The two men begin to toss names of well-known authors back and forth, along with a discussion on the importance of reading quality literature.

I keep listening, not because I know them, but because my ears can do nothing else but attune themselves to their topic of choice.

The conversation ends; the moment passes; the men bid each other farewell; but I am left here pondering.

That man was right. Writing is a beautiful art. If a picture is worth a thousand words, a thousand words have the power to create a masterpiece. I am taking part in this painting; I am currently grasping one of those tiny, colored brushes and drawing simple strokes on the canvas of every written word. Someday, I want to hold a larger brush and dip it into a myriad of colors. The key word is: someday. That day has not yet arrived, but I am working towards it.

Thank you, stranger in the city. Thank you for leading me to an eavesdropping epiphany.

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