A Long-Lost but Never Forgotten Bond
When we meet someone, every once in a blue moon, who seems to click into us as if completing a circuit, something seems to happen that I had thought was impossible. I had always thought myself to be someone who had to be alone. I truly thought that the more that someone saw of me, the less that they would want to see. And I do think that there will always be people who will feel that way about each other. But when something happens, when my particles sense a familiarity in someone that I’ve just met- as if we were both atoms in the same being eons ago- the fear of being seen dissolves because at first glance you not only see but understand each other. As if a molecule split in two and floated through forms for millennia until it incarnated as you, and I, coming together to fuse a long-lost but never forgotten bond.
When you meet someone who has walked this life from the opposite pole of the Earth and met you here, in a quasi-accidental place and time, you somehow know that you know them, and that you, by not knowing them at all, make them feel more know than they’ve ever felt. And that sneaky, ridiculous thought of knowing a stranger will pull a smile to be shared by long-lost, freshly-found love.
Usually, scrutiny amplifies insecurities. Being under a microscope through the eyes of another reveals truths that are easily left unthought of. Too much detail can drive any person off a cliff from overwhelm. But how beautiful is it to be seen through the eyes of real love? And how beautiful the thought, or more like the memory, of two people who hold the story of their meeting between each other. Four hands holding up a miracle, keeping it warm. It’s incredible how different it feels to have the person that you love look you in the eyes and point out every intricacy of your being. To tell and retell the feeling of a first look, and to notice every gesture, mannerism, and peculiarity since.
To be scrutinized is to be exposed, to be shone light on. To be exposed is an acceptance of risk; it’s the removal of armor to reveal the soft, thin skin of the stomach and say: “Behind my fragile skin and sliceable flesh I hold all that keeps me alive, and all that lives inside of me wants to be known by you. I ache for you to see me, so cut me open. Cut me open and look, because it’s all for you.”
And a selfish love will pick up the knife and start slicing. It will cut through layers of muscle and pierce organs. And a selfish love will twinkle at the eyes for this incredible gore. “It’s all for me,” it will think. And amongst the perverted pleasure, a disgust will kick in. The novelty wears off, and the naked, scattered remains of a selfish pursuit of curiosity are left to dry and crust in the sun.
Not this stranger, though. No, this cosmic collision knows nothing of novelty, and much less of ownership. “Cut me open and look, see me, please, because it’s all for you,” you can plead. But with a gentle hand they grab the knife from you and turn the blade away. “There’s no need to dissect what you already understand.”
