I Know You

Though we’ve never met,

I know you, for I know this.

It matters not that I know not your name,

For you are not your name.

We all have names.

A name is but a sound.

A sound with which you are familiar,

To which you are likely attached.

A sound to which the remembering of which you likely give meaning,

And the forgetting of which, a different meaning.

A name is a series of shapes on paper or screen,

A not-even-unique identifier,

That distinguishes you from most others.

Only in name.

Though I don’t know your name,

I know you, for I know this.

I know familiarity,

I know attachment,

I know meaning.

Though we’ve never met,

I know you, for I know this.

It matters not that I know not where you are from,

For you are not where you’re from.

We are all from somewhere.

Where you are from is but a place.

A place of which you have fond memories,

Or painful memories.

Whether or not you’ve moved on,

Where you’re from is a place you like to be,

Or dislike to be.

Though I don’t know where you’re from,

I know you, for I know this.

I know fond memories,

And painful memories,

Places I like to be,

And dislike to be.

Though we’ve never met,

I know you, for I know this.

It matters not that I know not your interests or passions,

For you are not your interests or passions.

We all have interests or passions.

Some even have both.

Whether opera, grime or death metal,

Butchery, organ grinding, going to the dogs,

Entomology, etymology, aetiology,

Horses, corpses, dissecting frogs.

Wining, dining, beering, ginning,

Poetry, comedy, inanely grinning,

Singing, dancing, hopelessly romancing,

Holiday, travel, spaining, francing.

I know what it is be be engrossed,

To want to do,

And to be able to make the most,

Of time spent doing specific things,

That fill me with joy,

That happiness bring.

That connect me to me and at times to others.

Things doing which I feel alive,

And want to persist,

Love to exist!

Though I don’t know your interests or passions,

I know you, for I know this.

I know interest.

I know passion.

Though we’ve never met,

I know you, for I know this.

It matters not that I know not your hopes and your fears,

For you are not your hopes and your fears.

We all have had hopes and fears,

And dreams and regrets.

Things we love to remember,

Things we’d love to forget.

Things that keep us awake at night,

And trouble us before dawn.

Exciting things, painful things,

Things for which we mourn.

Though I don’t know your hopes and your fears,

I know you, for I know this.

I know hope,

I know fear.

Yet for knowing this,

I hope and fear no longer.

Though we’ve never met,

I know you, for I know this.

It matters not that I know not of your suffering,

For you are not your suffering,

Though you likely define yourself by it.

Convincing yourself and others through stories,

That you and your suffering are one and the same.

Believing the narrative of the mind,

The criticism, judgement and blame.

Spinning weary tales of woe,

Of which you refuse to let go,

So as to explain the suffering experienced,

On comparing reality,

To your expectations,

Your fantasy.

The illusion by the mind composed,

Of your shoulds, your shouldn’ts

And your supposeds.

Though I don’t know of your suffering,

I know you, for I know this.

I know suffering.

Yet for knowing this,

I suffer no longer.

Though we’ve never met,

I know you, for I know this.

It matters not that I know not what you love.

What matters is that you love.

What matters is that you are love.

You knew this once, as a child,

Yet have likely forgotten.

This is the this I’ve been referring to throughout:

I know you, for I know this:

I know you, for I know me:

I know you, for I know love:

I know you, for I am love.