Every post, every word I come across reflects its own story. And each story, an emotion. And often as I must wonder, I feel there are these threads that connect us to each other and who we are outside this virtuality.
Like the strings of a guitar, each of us plucks a different tune, an amalgamation of varied frequencies through our soul. But all of it comes down to one and only one thing, something that I can decipher from each post I read tonight or any other night.
What is it? We write about it, each in its own way. We feel it, each in its own manner and though sometimes we forget how much of it we need, we still search for infinite registers of its complexity.
Bound in its chains is the outflow of anger, irritation, joy, happiness, distress, and loneliness, each for its own.
What is it that this love carries which makes us so vulnerable to our own needs?
What it is can’t be searched, unless felt in my own heart, on my own terms.
Same, yet unique.
Simple, yet labyrinthine.