Intimacy and Knowing

I think the most intimate thing is truly knowing someone. Remembering the small details, asking stupid questions, wanting to understand their world and what has shaped it.

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To truly know someone means allowing them to haunt you for the rest of your life. Their presence lingers in subtle ways, resurfacing in your thoughts without warning. The memory of them uninvited, and sometimes, unwelcome. You pass the subway station they lived nearby, walk through the streets you once wandered together, and suddenly, they’re there again. They return to you in fragments, in moments. In the spaces between things. Even if you no longer walk side by side, learning about each other intertwines your lives and your futures. The knowing endures, even if they don’t.

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Letting someone know you in return is just as intimate. It’s granting them a pass into the museum of your life. Each painting a different version of you, all on display. In the past, I opened those doors too easily. I let people wander through the exhibits, linger for a while and admire the parts that were easy to love. But when the lighting dimmed and the pieces grew harder to interpret, they left. I used to think those paintings weren’t beautiful enough to hold their interest, but I’ve come to realize it was never about the paintings or their worth. Some people just don’t have the capacity to appreciate what they’re seeing.

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Maybe I was naive, or just young and hopeful. I thought connection was about giving, about and showing how deeply I could care. I thought that if I asked enough, listened enough, gave enough, that it would be enough. I believed that by offering someone access to my inner world, they would naturally want to stay. I thought my curiosity could fill in the silence where theirs was missing.

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But relationships aren’t one-sided. And a museum is not just for passing visitors. It is a scared place, a collection of you. Not everyone should be allowed in.

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I don’t want to be haunted by people who were never careful with what they saw. Intimacy should be earned. Presence should be mutual. And being seen should come from someone who wants to see everything. Not just to satisfy curiosity, but to truly understand.

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I still want to know and be known. It’s human to want to be seen, to share your world with someone and have them truly care. But now, I want to be more careful. Not everyone deserves a tour of the rooms I’ve spent my life building. To know and be known is intimate. It’s a gift. And it’s not something you can take back once it’s been given.I have now found people who long to understand me. Who entered the museum, and never want to leave. I am grateful for those in my life who know me, and are eager to learn more.

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I often compare myself to a museum or an art gallery where people come in, wander around, and oftentimes they leave. I forget that each of us are an art gallery where the works are incomplete. We hang parts of ourselves on display, and as the visitors walk past, they add something to the canvases of us. Some people draw beautiful characters, add kind words, splash a bit of color against the blank background. They see the painting as something to be cherished, a piece of an artists pride, born out of their creativity and effort. Where effort is put in, appreciation is welcomed, and often hoped for.

However, others do not show such respect. Some may enter into the gallery, perhaps without even realizing it is a home of art. They see some blobs spilled across the walls and instead of seeing value, they see something to ruin, to take advantage of for their own entertainment. So they scribble. They scratch. They tear. They stab. Bullet holes sporadically spread. Was it naivety or ignorance? We will never know. Yet the scars remain.

We are not mere sheets of paper, fragile and sensitive. We are the walls that make up the gallery. Our art can never be ruined. Some may rip open cavities, holes may appear. But some will patch them up, turn what was battered into beauty, build up what was torn down.

So please, enter my gallery. Make your mark on my life. Draw traces to remember you by. It shall never be erased. Become a part of me, join me in this journey, for the heartbreak and the happiness, let us have some effect on each others’ lives.

That is living.