just about the stuff in the middle

“…I knew I was getting somewhere when I began losing interest in the beginnings and the ends of things.

Short tragic love stories that had once interested me no longer did.

What interested me was the kind of love to which the person dedicates herself for so long, she no longer remembers quite how it began.”

Ongoingness, Sarah Manguso

I’ve wondered at times why it seems so important that we find someone,
romantic partner, friend, sibling, parent,
who really sees us. Who not only hears what we say,
but understands it.

I think I have it.

Unless you’re a published author whose nearly every thought
has been recorded — in fiction, biography, poetry, journal —
the only person who really knows you,
really
knows,
knows
you,
is you.

All of the little things that make up yourself,
your
self,
the entire collection of your thoughts and experiences,
which conspire to form who you actually are,
is only complete in your own mind.

Unless you have someone with whom to share it.

So.
We need this
other
so that,
when we are gone,
we know that there will be at least one
more
mind
that knew we were here.