“Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.”
 ― George Orwell, 1984

People who are still growing into themselves may prefer to be loved rather than understood. They don’t yet fully understand themselves and seek acceptance in it’s purest form, perceived as love. To love them is to leap and have faith in what you cannot see.

Rare is it to find someone that can see who you will be rather than who you are.

It is a privilege bestowed on a few, because really the only way to be truly loved is to be truly understood.

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“I like to see people reunited, I like to see people run to each other, I like the kissing and the crying, I like the impatience, the stories that the mouth can’t tell fast enough, the ears that aren’t big enough, the eyes that can’t take in all of the change, I like the hugging, the bringing together, the end of missing someone.”

— Jonathan Safran Foer from “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close”

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“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

by Haruki Murakami from “Kafka on the Shore”

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“Is it possible, in the final analysis, for one human being to achieve perfect understanding of another?
We can invest enormous time and energy in serious efforts to know another person, but in the end, how close can we come to that person’s essence? We convince ourselves that we know the other person well, but do we really know anything important about anyone?”

by Haruki Murakami from “The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle”

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Photograph by RIVER LILY

There is nothing more intimate than touch; the sense that connects us not only to each other but to ourselves – it reaffirms our existence and grounds us. We touch to say hello, show affection, express anger, and say good-bye. When we make a connection to another person, their skin becomes a tangent; the path by which we intersect. In our interactions our hands do the all the talking; touch is a language in and of itself.

It’s scientifically proven that our olfactory senses are those most tethered to our memories; with this the smell of one’s skin becomes even more significant than a name.

 

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