That's okay. Nobody can be where I am even when I'm doing something fairly trivial, like watching television. Nobody else is me. I'm past wishing that they were. People can empathize with me, can love me, without knowing what it's like to be me. (So you can stop saying you can't imagine, but know that when you slip and do say it I translate it to "I am so sad for you, friend," which I think is mostly what you mean.)
It's hard when people ask, "How's your summer going?" and they're light and cheerful and even when I say, "It's the worst summer of my life," they forget that I already told them why. (Some of us are farther apart than others, aren't we?) It's not malicious, forgetting, no matter how much it hurts. I've done it, too.
We're all so stuck here, wherever here is for each one of us.
God knows.
2 comments:
Well, he was humming this hum to himself, and walking along gaily, wondering what everybody else was doing, and what it felt like, being somebody else, when suddenly he came to a sandy bank, and in the bank was a large hole.
"Aha!" said Pooh. (Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum.) "If I know anything about anything, that hole means Rabbit," he said, "and Rabbit means Company," he said, "and Company means Food and Listening to Me Humming and such like. Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um.
Winnie-the-Pooh is so wise.
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