A Memory, An Aside

    "I've never felt so overwhelmed," I deadpanned. "Classic Mitch," she responded.

    That exchange illustrates- and is my strongest point of reference to- my slow acceptance of the disconnect between my own feelings and my uneven ability to impart them to another. At times I feel transparent; a palpable sense of self-revelation, which can be either blessing, curse, or both. Or neither.

    Other times I feel opaque. This isn't to say that I exist in either one mode or the other- things are always more complex than that. Rather, and depending on the subject and the object, my sentiment ebbs, flows, dissipates and wells inside me in impossible to fully articulate or to understand.

     And these feelings- perhaps more than their reception-  are under semi-constant reevaluation from new vantages, as I assess the results of actions taken.

    Though I may feel that my interlocutor may see right through me, or right past me, it is -- to my thinking-- maddeningly unverifiable. Maintaining a relationship is (shockingly) both a matter of the emotion of the subject, and the facility of relating that emotion to the other. It becomes a matter of language, as we speak of "love languages," and we unpretentiously talk of "being on the same page."

    I think that language is important, but it is only a tool. I feel that emotion is important, but is useless when encased in the heart and not imparted. Communication is crucial in bridging the divide between persons, but the substance that is communicated in myriad ways can't be disentangled from the act of communication.

   I think what is important -- beyond metaphysical speculation-- are the choices we make, and our ability to follow through on them as the results make themselves known.  
   
    This shit is hard.

    Is emotion what matters in relating between the individual and something external to that individual? That marriage of selfishness and selflessness has to exist- but by what mechanism?

    Connections, it seems, are punishingly difficult. Still- we make them all the time- or feel we do. Is that what matters?