Neither of us knew what to make of this. We were objects, in an object world. We looked down, and we looked up, and we parted. Neither of us knew what to say.
There are some things which cannot be said, some pains which cannot submit to words, to expression.
The innermost kernel of horror is not an excess of emotion, but its cessation. It is being an inert object in the mouth of a slobbering wolf.
Perhaps a new beginning is possible for me–my intellect says it is, but my heart, being absent, can neither confirm nor deny this rumor–and perhaps it is not.
What is, is, though, and seeing clearly is always a new beginning, and this is always possible.
Edit: I just found out this woman went through a severe flashback last night. This conversation in my mind did happen, and it has only happened once. I think I felt her, because what she was feeling, and what I have felt often, were on similar wavelengths. I know what it is like to lose everything and be ground into dust and scattered.
My feeling is that I am strongly psychic, but that so much floods in I can’t hope to control it. I was not only under continuous psychic attack all through my childhood, but I honestly believe that attack continues.
And my wounds attract all the negative and bad things to my consciousness. I sometimes “wake up” just a little bit, and it is like a firehose, absolutely overwhelming. I think I can grok how autistics must process the world.
I think we might think of the “Self” itself as a down regulator, and the brain as a further step down transformer. Infinite things and perceptions are open to us, but without being infinite, none of us can hope to reach more than an infinitesimal fraction of them.
I will add that I rarely use the word love. In my experience, it is usually associated with pain. I don’t like it. And it is a word which is easily used to hypnotize people, to bamboozle them, to manipulate them. Love exists in eyes. It exists in gestures. But I almost never trust words.