The long tail...
by disillusioned
(Place, 1817 views) - 1/18/05
(recorded 1/18/05 @ 4:13:28 AM)
You never let me hold the door open for you. And I didn't get that. I remember one time, you even stood in front of the open door- in the rain, no less- and waited for me to stop acting the fool and to walk through the door. Part of me hated that about you.

I couldn't count on you the way I always wanted to. You were something of an aura more than an absolute. An absolute aura, sure- your mist was always on my mind. And a million thoughts run through your head- and I could be one in a million... but I bet I'm more.

It's minutiae, really. The tiniest of things. The sound the door makes as you turn the key and I hear the tumblers fall into their perfect place, resting gently on the key's teeth. The certain shade of green on your jeans after we wrestled in your back yard. The way you flashed a simple smile because you felt more comfortable than you knew what to do with...

It's the long tail. (And it's not really a place at all...) You see, in consumerism, there's what's called the "long tail". Stores sell what's "popular", because they can make a large amount of profit from those items, as opposed to indie or niche things. But the truth is, if they could offer every single item ever produced, the sum of all the sales of those niche items would far exceed the popular elements. These things that exist outside of the traditionally "popular" realm are part of the long tail...

I know it's a stretch of a metaphor, but bear with me. Sometimes, the most enriching, the most powerful and the most staggering memories come from the long tail. It's not the single few big, defining moments, counter-intuitive as that may seem. It's the sum of so many millions of tiny parts. It's the curve and exact angle of your smile, it's the way your chest rises and falls, it's the number of curls your hair has or lacks, it's the way you pronounce your esses, the scent of you trying on four different perfumes, the way your eyes become more vibrant when they're sheathed in tears, the precise path your fingers dictated they would take when running over my arms, the pitch of your laugh when something is more funny than you can bear, the way your hair falls into your coffee, but only the foam, it's... the flavor you take when you taste like nothing at all.

Part of me hated that about you. But the silent majority deep within me knew it was exactly what I fell in love with.

Make your own treasure hunt, if you wish.
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   [Blakesta (J) 1/18/05 12:00 PM]

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