misunderstood

My friends are always obliging me with ephemera like this—screenshots of sexts, emails to their mothers—because I’m forever wanting to know what it feels like to be other people. What were we all doing? What the hell was going on here on Earth? Of course none of these artifacts really amounted to anything; it was like trying to grab smoke by its ha

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“[mistrust] the woman’s process of abstraction, simply because I’d grown weary of life in the abstract. For most of the people we were acquainted with, Manu and I were nothing more than our countries of origin, our accents, our work. And I yearned for a specific existence.”

Because here is the thing: every bit of communication to a group of people is ripe for misunderstanding. But the true delusion exists when we pretend like it isn’t. Even if we have been on the other side of the dynamic many times before, misunderstanding things.

I have been thinking about it a lot lately: do we owe people comprehensibility, legibility, concreteness? May I claim the right to be intangible?

Clarifying often feels like moving further from the initial meaning