Connecting

Filling up notebooks is pleasing.

And I like turning through past thoughts.

I have some essays I wrote in 2015 – just for myself, not for school or anything.

There’s sort of journal entries where I’ve stayed up spilling.

Talking about my emotions, my sexuality, my problems, fears.

It’s nice to have a record of these things – if enough time passes it can be a bit like reading someone else’s diary, until you get to a part you remember really feeling and it can take you back there for a second.

Another record gets kept – often without this intention.

Messages sent between friends, to people I may not even speak to anymore.

You can search for a particular word and see hours of past conversation.

Odd.

Imagine when the only record one had of particular conversations was in one’s memory.

Just in a general vibey way – you can remember how you felt with someone generally and the odd bit of conversation, a particularly intense secret sharing session, or inside jokes that were repeated so much they became your second friend-language.

Now, sometimes I find people seem to exist in the words they’ve let me in on – in the smiling yellow faces they click in.

It catches me off guard in the first second of a phone call – when you can hear a voice

And you know that voice is embodied.

There’s someone else with a real body, whose lips form the sounds and whose tongue pushes them out.

Real eyes and real brain, speaking to yours.

How close, how connected – what a blessing.

What a blessing to see someone in your actual vicinity – to share the same space and time.

To be free to share smiles I can use my muscles to make on my own face,

To see yours appear with my own eyes and hear your laugh, sing-song.

To share sunlight and a drink, to both feel the bitter air on our skin.

Isn’t it a privilege to see your words touch someone else’s face in real time, instead of waiting for a response in a vacuum.

 

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