If you’ve reflected all your life, then you’re no stranger to finding deep meaning in books, writing and other forms of expression. From simple sentences to an entire symphony, you connect, as though you long to or are already a part of the subject matter. It’s a quirk, a tendency, a hobby you instinctively do. By staring too long at spaces and things, parsing out the unseen, rationalizing with the arrival of feelings while trying to untangle the framework before you, you’re rewarded a profound understanding, a truth, a refreshing outlook or reality.
Seeing isn’t enough; you need to know and believe that there’s substance, a story, a trauma, beyond words and pictures either to disprove your insanity or to confirm theirs. It’s part of the creative process that bridges us on an entirely different plane. On this plane, you sense the cynics in the room, brush shoulders with the thinkers and oversleep with the dreamers.
Yet on this same plane, you worry about whether the job description looks too frumpy on you or if your 3.1 GPA brings out your eyes. You let everyone in line cut in front of you, despite a few decent friends telling you the water’s fine.
