(no subject)
One thing to know about Rita is, Rita has a brother.
Lack or comparably small number of readers at this journal helps somewhat to write down these personal things.
Rita has a brother, and it matters.
Rita's brother is different, because he's the same. He loves the same things, but differently; he loves different things, with the same zeal.
He loves Rita, and she loves him, which is why they hurt each other - no. He loves Rita and she loves him, which does not account for the hurting part of it, but it's there.
They speak different languages about the same, and same language for different things. They are the crossovers of their parents, coupled with their shared childhood and languages created back then. There's no one person just like him, in Rita's mind. There's no one who can understand certain things like he does.
There's also no one who can hurt like he does, even when he does not mean to. They're so sensitized to each other, to each other's presence, mood, opinion. We matter. And so, the capacity to hurt is oh, above average, so to speak.
It's just family stuff, you might say, and you might be right. Family can hurt each other - they're close enough to do it. But there's some peculiar chemistry to it, peculiar give-and-take. Almost like being fully myself is destined to hurt him, and being fully himself will pain me no matter what.
Still, I hope. I still hope for us being strong, and finding each other in a place when we can be happy. I adore my brother and consider him a great and talented man; I hope to be in a place someday, where I can say it with no envy, no jealousy (petty or not), no self-undermining uncertainty.
I hope we can once meet and smile at each other's talents. I hope we can be strong in ourselves, and still sensitive to each other. That sensitivity is something to be desired, to be encouraged. Inadvert hurt done to each other - less so. It's like I hurt him by breathing and being there - and the idea of that hurts me, too.
I just want to be, not compare. I just want him to be happy and be happy myself.
He was my first playmate and friend, and an ally in that burning house that was my parents' marriage. He grew up self-protective and introvert, and, at times, I have mourned the perceived loss of his trust. However seemingly open he is, just living his life - it is good to know that I am not the only one that's a bit stuck in/with the past.
Every so often, I seek reassurance. Which, I know, is silly. He only has one sister.
Family stuff always makes people cry. Or maybe it's just me. With me, it's a thing. It's something I do. And crying, it's there, and cannot be helped.
Lack or comparably small number of readers at this journal helps somewhat to write down these personal things.
Rita has a brother, and it matters.
Rita's brother is different, because he's the same. He loves the same things, but differently; he loves different things, with the same zeal.
He loves Rita, and she loves him, which is why they hurt each other - no. He loves Rita and she loves him, which does not account for the hurting part of it, but it's there.
They speak different languages about the same, and same language for different things. They are the crossovers of their parents, coupled with their shared childhood and languages created back then. There's no one person just like him, in Rita's mind. There's no one who can understand certain things like he does.
There's also no one who can hurt like he does, even when he does not mean to. They're so sensitized to each other, to each other's presence, mood, opinion. We matter. And so, the capacity to hurt is oh, above average, so to speak.
It's just family stuff, you might say, and you might be right. Family can hurt each other - they're close enough to do it. But there's some peculiar chemistry to it, peculiar give-and-take. Almost like being fully myself is destined to hurt him, and being fully himself will pain me no matter what.
Still, I hope. I still hope for us being strong, and finding each other in a place when we can be happy. I adore my brother and consider him a great and talented man; I hope to be in a place someday, where I can say it with no envy, no jealousy (petty or not), no self-undermining uncertainty.
I hope we can once meet and smile at each other's talents. I hope we can be strong in ourselves, and still sensitive to each other. That sensitivity is something to be desired, to be encouraged. Inadvert hurt done to each other - less so. It's like I hurt him by breathing and being there - and the idea of that hurts me, too.
I just want to be, not compare. I just want him to be happy and be happy myself.
He was my first playmate and friend, and an ally in that burning house that was my parents' marriage. He grew up self-protective and introvert, and, at times, I have mourned the perceived loss of his trust. However seemingly open he is, just living his life - it is good to know that I am not the only one that's a bit stuck in/with the past.
Every so often, I seek reassurance. Which, I know, is silly. He only has one sister.
Family stuff always makes people cry. Or maybe it's just me. With me, it's a thing. It's something I do. And crying, it's there, and cannot be helped.