As a therapist, I have the privilege of engaging in truly honest, meaningful, and deep connections through words in my conversations with my patients. I experience a similar kind of deep, genuine, though purely imagined connection with my readers through the pages of my books. Through my words, I reach out, hoping we all feel seen, understood, or at least momentarily less alone. Because of this, most other small talk often feels exhausting, meaningless, and unnecessary.
I feel this especially here in the U.S., where everyone starts with “Hello, how are you?”, but in reality, no one actually cares, and if you are socially competent, you’re not even supposed to say anything other than “I’m fine, thanks, and you?” To which, of course, the other person is also “fine.”
I want to talk about sunsets and sunrises, about hotel balconies where the world feels quiet, where the city hums below but your heart beats louder.
Let’s talk about coffee cups left half-full, about stolen glances across candlelit tables, about the way the ocean whispers secrets only the wind can carry.
Lets talk about about the rain-soaked streets that smell like nostalgia, about laughter that lingers in the air long after it’s gone.
Let’s talk about nights that turn into mornings without permission, about holding hands in empty streets, about feeling at home in someone’s presence rather than a place.
Let’s talk about the biggest nonsense with the kind of passion that makes it sound like poetry, about the absurd things that suddenly feel profound when spoken in the right moment, to the right person.
