Us

I used to believe that everyone had a continuous dialogue running through their minds. That everyone felt they had to empty themselves out completely, in order to let in the truth, love, grace, and hope. There was a time when I believed that I was the only one. The only one who felt things so deeply, it often took me weeks to recover from a wayward glance. A turn of the mouth, ever so slightly upward, was cause for elation. They must really love my work… which must mean, of course, that they authentically love me, too. I thought I was the only one who spent all my time listening to the things people didn't say, instead of what they did say. But through the years, I have found, there is a community of "us". We often cringe at labels, but it seems, those un-like "us" call us, "artists."And they say it with a look that conveys, "it's terminal. you've got six months to live." We nod, and look away. Because we've seen it before. Knowing it will take us months to forget the sadness in their eyes. we're fragile. we break easy, and often. and we have lived a lifetime, already, in the first, "hello". We're not asking for empathy. But the next time you look at "us", could you take down your walls of indignation? Could you touch me? With all the tenderness you can fathom, could you just hold me for a moment, and say, "It's so good to see you today." That would travel such a long way in bridging the gap between you, and "us".