it is always amusing to hear such sarcastic laments as “I don’t understand you! I suppose I’ll get to read about you someday though.”
For woe is to miss understanding, who vents and yet makes little effort to understand herself.
“You want to understand me? Me, who has barely even begun to understand himself? You vie in vain my dear, and you will only be driven insane, should you keep trying.
Oh, and I know, oh I know, how you fear that I am lying to you once more, but do not believe me (wiling in reverse) when I relay that I am not worth all the fuss.
Trust me, oh, and I know, after all these years that only gets harder too, but we will never come to an understanding if you do not understand you first.
And still your prurient interest in me insists “this is intimacy,” an insistent intervening in my personal progress.
Interjection, interjection, such is your predilection, your preferred means of dissection, that is so-called communicating, futilely waiting for me to show-and-tell, to reveal, so that you might steal it to bite into, and chew; and ultimately—spit out.
For others are always harder to swallow, when we doubt ourselves, when we cannot even chew out own fat, when we don’t know where were at because we are lost in our efforts to find meaning in the lives of others, after we have given up trying to find meaning in our own.
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l.m