I’d like to comment on your blogs but usually don’t.
The most I manage is a drive by like or three.
Likes are nice enough to receive, but they don’t tell you much. What I liked or why. Maybe they serve as an awkward stranger’s encouragement.
Sometimes you share a thought I’ve never thought – and I am strangely inarticulate. To comment seems awkward and intrusive. It is about you, after all, and not I.
Sometimes I’m charmed by your excitement. People post about things that interest them – and there’s something novel, almost poignant, about enthusiasm. In a frequently stale world, it is pleasing to see people involved or passionate or excited or enthused about things for their own sakes. Not for how they look or how they make them look.
Sometimes I see or hear a piece of myself – my kind. I lived most of life believing there were no others of my kind. So when I encounter that peculiar commonality – you have felt what I have felt, have thought what I have thought – I’m drawn up short. There is nothing really to say. I mean, I could tell you, maybe, that you are not alone. At least for an instant. But I seriously doubt that would help anything.
Sometimes I just ache. When I read a poem or story or thought, or even when I hear a song, that for some reason passes all my guards. It holds me. “The mariner hath his will.” That might be skill, but I know from long experience that for me to try to put that into words always falls flat. It comes off as flattery or insincerity or irrelevance or … I don’t really know what, except that it is not what I intend.
I may just be unfriendly and anti-social – I’ve been called worse things … I don’t comment because I don’t have much to say, or because I don’t know how to say what I mean. But know I’d sometimes like to.