I was reading an old friend’s blog today and it was so surprising to see that I knew her words. 18 years ago we have spent many lifetimes in each other’s pockets talking about every single matter and non-matter in the world.
While reading what she had written, I remembered her writing. Small little, scrawly green darts across some creamy paper, pushing towards an explanation of thought. I do not know why, of late, a lot of people from my past are surfacing.
I am incredibly grateful for that, especially because I am horrendous at keeping in touch. These people know me, they understand how imperfect I am and they still like me or they are fond of me because once we were friends. They are not ‘scary’ new people who still have to earn my trust, become that friend, negotiate soul spaces and fit into the corner. Of course, I realise for my new friends I am a ‘strange’ entity too.
I do not know if ever this friend of mine and I will go back to talking through the night, greeting sunlight in that lovely tired way when you know your soul has been gently massaged and lulled into a feeling of comfort by friendship.
What I do know is that when I read her words, a part of me is transported to a small room where two people are talking intensely. And the miracle of it is, that other than the two of us, nobody in this world, will ever understand what is being said.