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And when at last
And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words your utter - they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
Thought
This is true but also I wonder back to Expression.
Can I really speak at all on these things? Is it just the feeling that I can speak to them, but it really is unexplored without the presence and input of another.
It feels like thought is some complex subjective object that I hold, different topics likes those that are included in this living document. They dwell in me subconsciously (while making pasta I might think of some esoteric art topic connection, but is it really a persistent inner dialog). So what is my understanding of them? Does just speaking them expose them to what they are: jejune, limp, lacking both substance and roots.
Basically are they meaningless and feeble from being in the inside dark (atrophying) or is it the opposite end, no true growth to begin with.
My first interpretation was the former, but I must explore in context. It’s strange that I notice now that I wasn’t taking notes on it, but I did read bits of her journal this year (2024).