We are isolation. Unvoiced thoughts. Darknesses we can’t walk through together. We slosh and clink against this tippy-toed talk. Chasms always yawn as we converse in half-light, full-light. Your nodding head tells lies and believes them. My tectonic plates slip without a surficial shudder. We pretend to speak of drowning while we smother in the collapse of unshared spaces.
We wander down paths of collective nouns, affixing labels to forms and formless alike. Without these specific, burdened words, we are alone in our own skulls. The shapes between us blur until we are uncertain, shaky and shaken. Think through this filter; synaesthesia of the vicarious. Translate, translate, but never know what this means. We lose referents to dominant chaos. We crave the tangible to prove the ethereal, and mistrust skin or smiles or sibilants . A sense of touch divorced from the experience of texture. We become the compartments we learn to apply to experience. When all we ever wanted was to be a lexicon of our own invention.
It seems, then, that motherhood is uniquely universal/universally unique. Dependant on mother-infant interaction, and the parallel-perpendicular-oblique personalities of both subjects, with additional inputs besides. And while at this stage – infant internal – the only aspect of experience is vicarious, it is useful to be informed. Simultaneously outformed. Psychologically embracing the squirming distention of a formerly singular body. Now dual, soon to be several and returned to its informal former state. Separately connected on the shifting foundations of self. Perpetual destruction and re-creation of the no-longer-sacred and never-profane. Despite all this, unknowable.