It used to be that the inner lives of people were not talked about. People coped as best as they could. But everyone knew that those inner lives existed. Like memories of a trail followed, a journey undertaken where no footsteps remain, the labyrinth of the heart and the psyche wordlessly fused the seen and unseen, acknowledged/unacknowledged. They used to form the stuff of stories, of novels, and of faith. Knowledge of the workings of the hidden tied sanity and compassion together as much as they gave opportunity for brutality and silent suffering.
But the world has morphed into a form where the explicit, the written, the verbalized are privileged and used to form the boundaries of the acceptable arena. The existence of inner lives has been left unacknowledged so long that people are forgetting it even exists. That creates a real context of cross-pressures for those who still give space to their inner lives, and they must keep that side to themselves if they must carry on with the business of living. They learn the discursive vocabulary of reason and marble Apollo’s arts, they learn to “express” what should only be impressed and sometimes not touched at all, thereby violating the tender precincts of the Self. The world morphs into its new shapes, and some things must be lost. As a result, some people are also lost. So be it.
Even if there is no mystery left to the long-legged fly upon the stream.