After I realized how few only one of us truly are, as in, the rarity or endangerment of the only child, I see how few may understand me-genuinely-the way my children understand each other but not me and the crucial if not mortal necessity I feel for solitude. And alienation is not ostracizing if one never felt a connection. It is not found in silence. And although there remain tones of this essence underneath, it is too muffled to make out. Somehow I made it through until now, more than once I made it to the outside world, to others, to simply touch something and come back, quickly I recoil from over-stimulation.
I see others acclimating quite nicely. You get used to this, one could say, like the train or the ocean.
Meanwhile, I am watching all this from inside these windows, I see connections and glass; crystal structures and rainbows, and although I stand so low to the ground I feel out of place, a touch of vertigo because I know I could be the only one who smells the rain rising from below, feels the clouds falling on my head, see them spinning…and say too much.
This is why we blink, I realized, it should not be up to us only to refresh the view.
Watercolor painting by Winslow Homer (1892) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
No comments:
Post a Comment