Beyond Selidor

[W]e are bound in memory and lineage even when we can't see it or know it or feel it – can't know every person who felt the strings of themselves resonate in sympathy with those colours, can't reach out to or touch them. Except, sometimes, when we open books, and find our hearts beating inside them, naked and vulnerable, singing of aches, of blessed unrest, of queer divine dissatisfaction. We open books and find that people loved as we love; women spoke as we speak. The sun sank every night and dissolved into rivers and oceans and the eyes of dreaming children, and it rose again as it rises again, missing no part of itself.

Amal El-Mohtar, 'The Blessed Unrest of Women Talking'

Every so often, I read something and it is as if the author has reached into my heart and unlocked my own words, and this post is one of those times. I feel seen, in the most earnest sense.