Notes.

It was a strange relationship. I could not leave him nor he me. Not because we needed each other for survival, at least not as normally stated, but because we understood each other. We were isolated by our decency, disillusioned by the mundane, and floated around in a zone where words seemed to have unique meanings that no one else could grasp. It was comical and serious beyond measures in turns to talk to people in the same language. Some were horrified with my sentences, and sometimes I was horrified – yet only they were capable of judgments which were often out of my grasp. And then we met and we could share our jokes. He would often respond to the exact nuances of my sentences in a way that he knew exactly those key words that had to be responded too, discarding the rest of the sentence. His response would be the exact idea that would progress the conversation forward and I could express everything I had long forgotten were inside me. It was a relief, it was joy. Perhaps I gave him the same luxury, without creating the hindrance of either judgment or confusion. We were clear to each other, and it was something that never happened before.

My ideas progressed after years of halting at the junction. The junction where you are not quite sure what is wrong with you, or with the world. Both are looking at each other in confusion, at the world and nature of suffering. Suffering not because some pain, real or imaginary, but the suffocation of words, words flung carelessly from the other side, a stone hitting the sensitive chord that seems to keep us bound, to different poles.

I was quite grateful to him and I was bound to these shared words. This was my utopia, where I found my affirmation that my words could mean only one thing, the exact thing I meant. Exact is often precise not accurate, but my emotions did not care for accuracy.