On entering

It was raw. Raw, but allowed you to enter in. It made me think about a prior piece I was working on - well several actually, that all revolve around the same thing: that story, you know the beautiful one that grinds something deep and fierce in me. Making raw work (or at least this piece) where people can still enter.

Is it enough to allow you to feel, and cringe, when the finger nails scratch slowly down the chalk board?

I want to make you cry with me, and I want to make you feel those deep and beautiful emotions that I feel - the ones that I still can't explain - the ones that are extraordinary and astounding - the ones that rub against each other to produce that spark. I want you to wash yourself in the bathtub and realize who you are. I want you to see yourself in the mirror and have it all make sense. I want you to see a picture and burst into tears. And not stop. I want your tears of confusion to pour down forming puddles on the bathroom floor. I want your wondrous tears to mutate into ones of spectacular joy. 

It was raw, like I said. Life is raw. Raw and crude.

Where do you enter? You enter in the sameness you feel, when the differentness has been broken down, when the exoticism has been surpassed because you know that this person is human too. And you think about your life, and how these events would affect you. You enter when you picture your reactions. You enter when it makes you treasure your own life whether because of the sameness or differentness. You enter when you see yourself  differently. You enter when the contact point has been made.

When you realize that you are not the only one and empathy trumps sympathy, that is when they enter, that is when you enter.