This old thang

I want to write something beautiful. 
Have you seen the way I look at you? I saw it once. In a mirror, in a glance, and the shock resonated. 
I try to remind myself this is how I make others feel. But I forget. 
It was the coldest winter of my life, but there you were. 
Lying in bed listening to the rain blow sideways thinking of not thinking of you. 

It’s not that I need to say what I mean. Why do we always have to say what we mean? Do we even know most of the time what we mean? We want the same things with the same people. It’s more of a sense we’re searching for, I think, that the right words cannot supplement. More of a sense of our souls rushing up to the surface than of expressing our every thought exactly right. But we need words to function. 
‘I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.’
It’s the words I say that trip people up when in reality I want them to notice what I don’t. So the words I say are only a distraction, a trick of the light, a mechanism I use to test those around me. It’s the words I don’t say that are important…that are what I really mean. How can that be? 

Why do I grapple with these questions? Why do I care? 
Why aren’t I simpler?
I don’t know why I expect to live in a world where I am understood without meaning. Without context. 
Because sometimes you meet people with which it is so and that is somehow worth more than the blanket of vocal ping pong. 
You know when you read a book and the sentences just make sense to you. I don’t mean that you can form the sound of the words and understand the meaning which becomes apparent. The visual of the words. I mean when you get the feeling the words relay. I mean when the meaning isn’t literal, isn’t explicit. Can’t be picked up and shown, but has to be felt to be understood. You either have to be able to imagine the feeling, or more often than not, have had to experienced it to recognize the sentiment in the pages. You have to have the compassion lever. 

The empathetic gene. 
“What is vertigo? Fear of falling? Then why do we feel it even when the observation tower comes equipped with a sturdy handrail? No, vertigo is something other than the fear of falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves.” 

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