Maybe it’s just human nature. We all want to connect, don’t we? We crave understanding, the sense that someone else gets us, sees us for who we really are. We search for it in a thousand different ways. Some people create gods and deities to give meaning to their lives. Others wrestle with cognitive dissonance, clinging to beliefs that make the absurdities of existence feel manageable. And then, there are those who disconnect completely, hoping that silence will speak louder than words ever could—hoping someone will hear their unspoken plea.
I run. That’s my escape. I don’t just run away from things, I run to something. In each stride, I feel a connection—a thread tying me to something bigger than myself. The hard ground beneath my feet, the wind slicing through the air, the scent of pine trees as I breathe deeply into the morning mist. In those moments, it's just me and nature, stripped of distractions. It's an intense, almost euphoric release. My mistress, my solace.
But sometimes, I read too. I dive into books, creating worlds in my mind where characters speak the things I can’t, where connections are built from ink and paper, as if crossing the divide between fantasy and reality might somehow reveal meaning.
I write, too. Not for fame, not for glory, but for a connection. In the hopes that someone, somewhere, might understand these fragmented thoughts, might recognize themselves in my words. It's not about being known—it’s about being seen, being heard in a way that feels real.
The most beautiful connection, though, is with another person. It’s unspeakable. It’s that silent understanding that exists between two souls without the need for explanation. That’s what I long for. The elusive connection where words aren’t needed, but the feeling is enough.
I’ve been watching Touch. Three episodes—just three, yet each one hits harder than the last. The weight of the messages, of the tragedy wrapped in small moments, is overwhelming. It’s not something to binge, something to pass over. No. The thoughts it stirs are too big, too heavy to take in lightly. It’s not just a show—it’s an assault on your soul. The constant search for connection, the search for meaning in the smallest of gestures, the weight of unanswered questions.
The characters send signals. But do we hear them? Or do we simply think we do? How often do we assume that someone understands us when, in reality, they might not even see the signal we’ve been sending out?
Sometimes, the messages I send are too vague. Maybe I use the wrong language—too critical, too disturbing, too heavy with doubt. I’ve bared everything, but I’m not sure anyone truly hears. I just want to be understood, to make a connection that’s real, not an illusion. I want to feel that someone, somewhere, understands the silent weight I carry.
But what happens when the truth gets in the way? What happens when the truth you’ve bled for doesn’t bring connection, but only distance? I've spoken the truth, and it cost me. I lost my work, my sense of worth, and in the end, even my heart. Now, the truth has become a burden—a tool for judgment. And still, they ask for more. Do I fabricate, lie, twist the truth to give them what they want?
Of course not. I don’t need to.
The truth is already cast. It’s out there, and it’s done. But what’s left? What is the connection I sought, when the only thing that remains is the emptiness of unfulfilled expectation? What’s left when the connection was just an illusion, something I built up in my mind and then watched unravel?
And now, I can’t even seem to find the connection with myself.
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