You want me to see you. You want me to know you. You want me to get what makes you tick and seek and swoon.
I want you to hear me. I want you to meet me. I want your curiosity to wash me open and exposed and delight in what she sees.
We want connection. We want resonance and shared meaning and recognition. We want to give and receive the treats of our meandering souls.
And so we talk about our acquaintance’s failings and our sister’s secrets. We whisper about the underdog’s disgrace or the head cheerleader’s imperfections.
There’s no harm in trading information, opinions, whispers. Except when there is.
Except when the lives and hearts of others are profanely used as the way in to connection. Except when sullied words about about our neighbours are the way to find allegiance with one another.
Why not merely expose our longing to see and be seen? Sure, it’s risky to share our own tethered desires and fears, our hopeful successes and complete fucked-upedness.