Thoughts on Momentous Contact

I don’t quite know how to explain it. But alas, I shall try.

Existing deep within each and every one of us, is a purely human quality that is powerfully intoxicating in it’s ability to enlighten, to inform. But out of necessity, it has been forced to inhabit the darkest regions of the human psyche, the regions we dare not visit.  We no longer know how to get there. It is foreign to us, for it has no place in our pragmatic world, it’s not needed in our daily routines of banality. Its existence has been ignored, suppressed, to where we now question if such a thing was ever really in our possession.

Most conversations had between people are backlit with the reminder, not all words are heavy with human intent.

Our words are often light as air, we speak just for the sake of speaking. To satisfy the needs of a constructed moment, we utter words, we know they really mean nothing. You’ll see me, and I’ll see you as mere moments that shall pass. As if our present correspondence is actually just an obstacle that we must overcome. It’s as if we interact merely to be be rid of one another.

A lifetime of conversation existing only as filler, stuffing. Using our words as a cushion to soften the blow of that metaphysical recognition we see in the other. For when I see you, and you see me… that suppressed part of us pays silent tribute to a different version of our own selves. You are me, and I am you…to some degree. Though lips move, though breath is drawn, even though it is done for the sake of the other…there is nothing real between us.

That normal nothingness that is between us is merely the world’s constructed tendency to systematically refuse and ignore, raw human connection. Connections that are actually the crux of our existence. And that is what the world tells us is our portion, that is what it tells us we should want, what we should desire, what we should pursue.

Because that’s the way it goes, isn’t it?

Exist to be rid of the other. Speak words of dust to avoid a connection. Trivialize it all to forget the feeling. We’ll trek onward in our individuality, our forlorn independence. The world doesn’t want me to see you, for you to see me. It doesn’t even want us to see ourselves. On we go.

I really must learn to explain myself better, for often times I make little sense when that feeling comes over me. That is, the empty ache as the world passes by, where momentous contact ceases to be known.

But I tell you there was a time, (though so far gone now) when I pursued and cultivated this usually ignored quality of a human kind. For a whisper of meaning is meant to be met. 

In all honesty, my attempts to explain what I mean by all this have ceased. Maybe I’m growing up, maybe I’m letting the world win, maybe I’m just jaded. I think I’ve let the world get the best of me because what I’m trying to explain to you is a shadow of what I used to know, of what I used to care about. And in referencing those shadows, I realize that I no longer reside in them.

I once sat with strangers, finding solace in anonymous dialogue consisting of the state of the soul. These were moments once distinctive of my nature. My life would cross with another life, and a guttural connection was forged.

It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t polite. It was crude and unrefined, ugly in its truth. I was drawn to these moments not out of will, not out of intent, nor necessity. But merely because my path happened to cross with another’s, and we didn’t go around each other, we didn’t contrive convolutions of disregard.

We were who we were. And our souls stood at a stand still in front of the other’s while our truths were told.


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