that’s all anyone wants from anyone else
“She wants to know if I love her, that’s all anyone wants from anyone else, not love itself but the knowledge that love is there, like new batteries in the flashlight in the emergency kit in the hall closet.”
― Jonathan Safran Foer
If you were to knock on my door,
and if I were to open it…
don’t assume that just because you knock on someone’s door they’re going to open it…
just because you text or call doesn’t oblige the person on the other side of the equation to reply or answer your call…
and it may not be about you, so try not to make it all about you…
don’t make everything about them something about you…
it’s tempting to do that, almost second nature… perhaps first nature…
everyone does it… thus as you make them all about you so the other person makes you all about them… and our connections become disconnected parallel lines often moving in opposite direction.
“I don’t want sunbursts or marble halls, I just want you.”
― L.M. Montgomery
It seems I’ve gone off on a tangential line… let me retrace my steps.
If you were to knock on my door,
I would probably open it.
Some people, that’s all they want or need from you, for you to open your door when they knock on it. It’s a fairly easy task to accomplish for them even if you’re the sort of introvert who classifies themselves as a hermit, as I do, and sometimes tells people that they’re anti-social (it’s fun to see what people do when you’re that open about yourself, it’s also rather intriguing to find that many people say the same about themselves when you say that about yourself).
But other people want a bit more than that, such as taking a look at what lies behind your door.
“Behind them, across the hall, the dancers shattered their roses on the floor, and Aedion grinned at his queen as the entire world went to hell.”
― Sarah J. Maas
If I were to open my front door wide enough for you to take a furtive glance into my hallway…
what I would see of what you see would be… (for when you look at me I also look at you, and when you look into my hallway the hallway looks back at you…)
slight surprise, it’s not what you expected,
a tinge of horror or some other form of disapproval, disgust, disappointment, not only is it not what you expected but it’s not to your taste at all,
a certain desire to fix what is wrong (according to you) with it, that glint in the eye of an idealist who wants what is in their mind’s eye to be made manifest for their viewing pleasure,
(everyone who sees my hall seems to want to decorate it, at the moment it’s being de-decorated – the other day I was removing grey paint from the banisters which made them look like prison bars to me – and so it’s a bit of a mess, but also a blank canvas onto which everyone would like to apply their paint… but those same people eager to decorate aren’t so eager to help you de-decorate)
a smidgen of curiosity about why it’s in such a state, with an added hint of wondering what I’m planning to do with it, how it will look once I’ve finished working on it… and a tinge of fear that I may leave it as it is (I quite like it this way)… I am planning to do something with it, aren’t I?
and a certain unspoken yet there all the same (micro-aggressive) arrogance as to why I haven’t magically sorted it all out so that those who get to see it won’t be faced with such a sore sight for the eyes (maybe your eyes turn everything they see into something which makes them sore, have you ever considered that).
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain. ”
― Ella Wheeler Wilcox
If I were to knock on your door…
and if you opened your door…
(I’d probably be surprised that you did because I thought I’d timed my visit well to coincide with when you’d be out)
you’d probably get annoyed with me for not noticing what you wanted me to notice and for noticing what you didn’t want me to notice…
I’d be looking at you rather than your carefully and beautifully decorated hallway,
but I wouldn’t be judging you the way that you might perhaps conclude that I am based on the fact that I have dark and staring eyes which seem to make people nervous (especially when I’m spaced out) as they think I’m thinking all sorts of dark thoughts about them, penetrating into the areas they try to hide… telling them that I’m doing nothing of the sort doesn’t dispel the spell.
One moment of silence from me (while I gather my thoughts enough to form a cohesive sentence) and people spill their guts, show me where they’ve hidden the bodies which are now skeletons rattling away haunting them (in the cupboard under the stairs… where all the clutter, dust, damp and spiders gather).
“I know this: if life is illusion, then I am no less an illusion, and being thus, the illusion is real to me. I live, I burn with life, I love, I slay, and am content.”
― Robert E. Howard
I’d invite you in for a cup of something but I can see that you’re longing to make your escape…
I mean you’re very busy with busy things…
It’s okay, I understand…
you’re afraid that you’ll never be seen or see again once you cross my threshold…
(and no, I don’t hide bodies in the cupboard under the stairs, there’s nothing under the stairs – as you can plainly see – I prefer to let the bodies hide themselves).