My great old English teacher used to say
“Never ever write that it’s similar but different!”
“It says nothing, means nothing, so don’t!”
I still think of her sometimes.
The glowing enthusiasm and contagious energy.
The curious methods that made us laugh or stutter in surprise.
The red ink, so much red ink,
marking our every mistake.
I still think of what she taught us, and wonder
if she realizes how much it shaped our view on writing.
Similar but different, though.
I still say it, though every time I hear the teacher’s voice
at the back of my head, telling me not to.
There are two parts of me now, similar but different.
Similar because they are both parts of me.
Aspects of my Self.
Different because they are just that.
One part searches for words while the other
One part swirls while the other is still,
thinks while the other feels,
questions while the other knows.
This isn’t poetry, but if it was it would be of the lousy sort.
It’s just thoughts, words come out of the one part of me
while the other part sighs silently underneath,
wondering why words are even relevant.
Both sides are developing, now.
I wonder if they will ever merge, or if they are meant to
be forever separate,
the same yet not the same,
similar but different.