I sometimes wonder how people know people; how we distinguish strangers from family just by an accumulation of facts about their life or by the kinds of habits we’ve built around each other. You could know someone for twenty years and not know how to say their name in the way that most comforts them, how to hold them, when to chase them. One day they meet someone who supposedly “gets it,” just like that.
Maybe weeks later they’ll realize they were wrong. They held the vowels between their fingers in a way that they hated, or they followed when they should have been counting their footsteps instead. They were winging it the whole time. Sometimes I think we’re all just winging it.
Still, my first question. Where does closeness come from? Who validates that feeling of security you could have in someone, and how do you know? Is there anyone who, twenty years ago, found someone and claimed them a soul-mate, and would they say it again today? Can the passage of time or the changing of minds invalidate how you felt at one instance in the past once the plot twist renders everything different? Who decides that? How do you know?
If things were easy, I wouldn’t have needed twenty years to feel understood. I only needed a day. It may have a lot to do with this bubble I drift around in; and contrary to popular opinion, I don’t build walls “to see who cares enough to break them down.” I’m not that jaded, thanks. I genuinely think that there is no one who fully and deeply gets it.
That this world is not enough for me. That I am anchored to the earth but I do not belong in it. That it will never belong to me, and that this — is exactly why I am lonely.