A conversation has a life of its own.
It can be long and winding.
Short and terse.
Two people can sit in silence.
And be harmonious.
Or cold.
We relate.
Either way.
Sometimes we are present.
Rapt by someone else’s worldview, wrapped inside them.
Sometimes aloof, inside our own thoughts,
body here, mind gone.
We can show up.
Take centre stage.
That’s one choice.
Or listen attentively.
We’re there.
Inside the moment.
We can remain hidden.
Keeping everyone at arm’s length.
We might still listen attentively.
But now we keep our thoughts to ourselves.
And don’t share.
Tucking ourselves in.
Guarding all entry points.
We communicate.
With or without words.
We relate.
Moment after moment.
It’s interesting.
In one way,
I’ve known my husband almost 40 years.
In another, he’s still a mystery.
Sometimes I listen to him and disagree.
I think he doesn’t understand me.
Get me.
But of course, he doesn’t.
Except when he does.
We relate on so many different levels.
Some levels feel warm and fuzzy.
While others are cold and harsh.
We clash.
We connect.
It changes. It stays the same.
We become mired in our internal stories
about the other.
And then bam! They surprise you.
Sometimes that’s good.
Sometimes it isn’t.
How far have I mired my other inside the story I’ve made?
How many times has he done the same to me?
How far have I believed something to be true,
thinking it was you,
your way of thinking,
your fault?
It’s you I blame.
Only to see it was me
and my way of thinking
over and over again.
You are a character inside my story.
Inside my head.
We could have missed each other altogether.
Not connected.
Not understood.
Just blamed and kept running in circles.
For ten years.
For twenty.
For thirty.
For forty.
And then what?
I realise?
Perhaps, remember?
Sometimes it was you.
But not always. Not every time.
It became a habit.
A story I replayed.
An annoying soap opera that wouldn’t stop.
But there’s also been the mysteries,
the thrillers,
the rom-coms,
and many more moments that make up a life.
I don’t know...
There are multiple versions of you
and me.
There’s still room...
We can relate differently.
Presently.
Real.