There are no paths where I'm going, only chaos. There is no sound, only garbled noise. There is no up or down, no left or right. I have to create it out of nothing and make sense of what was never meant to make sense, and yet if I don't, it will continue to hound me, to stalk me; it will continue to feed on me from the inside, until it will make me hollow and brittle, and I will collapse like a skin-sack without bones to hold it up because they rotted away, the flesh long eaten to nothing by the fears and the doubts and the self-hatred. It is the path to coming out the other end and being able to share my journey, when I'm through. And I'm not through it yet, I may have just turned its darkest corner.
Read MoreWe write out of loneliness
There are moments in everyone's life when something happens, something extraordinary, something so exquisite and exciting and overwhelming that we want to share it. We're social creatures, we're built that way. So we do. We start gushing to the first person we think will understand.
It goes like this.
At first we're swimming too deep in our own exuberance to be able to notice the reaction of the one listening to us (or pretending to listen). It's only after we manage to really get into the story of our epiphany—whatever it is—that we notice peculiar silence. Or polite silence. Or an interruption. Or it can be a glazed-over look, or a disbelieving shake of a head. This misunderstanding comes in many shapes, but the message is the same.
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