Loneliness and the act of listening
The following is an excerpt from my journal.
I was discussing with someone how the interpersonal experience of depth feels to me. Namely, how the deeper you delve into any given topic, the fewer the people you will find around you who are willing or able to follow you. And if you do find someone, their energy levels do not match yours. This is the state of my loneliness that I have alluded to several times before.
Unlike solitude, loneliness is not about the absence of people around you: I do talk to others and have no issue socialising. If anything, socialising is easy because I have diverse interests and activities I am fairly competent at, such that I can eventually find something to connect with others over. Besides, some people seem interested to approach me for whatever reason, so this part is not a problem overall.
Loneliness consists in the fact that you are alone in one important aspect of yourself, peerless within the confines of your milieu. Despite your best intentions and sincere efforts, you cannot bring others into the inner sanctum of your world. Having recognised the trend of what happens when you try, you no longer extend the invitation. This is my intellectual side. I only have my writings to share it with.
You know that you have become an alien in this regard. Though you also suspect that you might have always been one: a dragon, a being that is unmistakably recognisable yet shrouded in mystery. They can quickly notice that you are different, though they do not know exactly what that difference is about, nor can they fathom what it entails. You embody the link between worlds, where the depth and the surface are one, present in both of them though belonging to neither of them. Your domain is that of liminality. The indeterminate does not disturb you.
This experience of loneliness may be why I have become a good listener and, by extension, a competent conversation partner. Since I cannot find another dragon around, I might as well give to others what I can afford: a situation-specific peer.
Listening is an act of courage. You offer the other person that which is most precious to you: your creative life force, your vitality. You give them your undivided attention for an indefinite amount of time. As such, you open your inner self to them. Though not to disclose anything in particular but to become a receptacle for whatever they may disseminate.
Courage is knowledge of your own strength. You know that you have the requisite fortitude of character. Your emotional stability provides you with a strong foundation, such that you may endure whatever comes your way. Absent such knowledge, you are being reckless or naive as you run the risk of getting shocked.
Courage also involves faith. You trust that the circumstances will favour you. In this example, you believe that your interlocutor will treat you with kindness. Or, in a different way, you wager that your resilience will withstand their potential abuse.
Whenever I offer someone my vitality, I notice that their demeanour changes. They are not as cautious even though we are strangers and despite the fact that I have not shared anything meaningful about myself. They still feel they are in a safe space. And indeed they are. How could it be any different? As a dragon, I am the monster that all other monsters are afraid of because their presence does not disturb me. Is there anything more unsettling in this world than a being that is not moved by your threats?
When I listen, I communicate calmness. I effectively say that everything is going to be alright. I make it authoritative through my demeanour, because I am stable.
Even within the first hour, people will switch gears from whatever technical and impersonal issue they were expounding on to tell me about their private affairs. I never ask such probing questions and do not try to move the conversation in that direction. They simply switch topics.
I think they realise that I have created a portal to some other dimension that will not stay open for much longer. It is a rare event, so they wish to make the most out of it, which they do by sending a message across in the hope that something nice happens. They do not even know they have this hope, nor are they in control of their response.
The person being listened to feels transparent. They are not merely seen. They are exposed completely. What remains is for them to admit what is already available and, perhaps, to become aware of it themselves. There is no filter that can distort their image. They would not even want such an effect to exist. Masks are for hiding from the many so that we can reveal ourselves to the few whom we trust. Hiding is sometimes done through overexposure: it still presents them with a distraction from what is kept inside.
When people tell me about themselves, I notice that they lose track of time. This is the portal in practice: I have transported them to another place where their worries are irrelevant. They leave them at the door. They also lower their defences. What they tell me seems to me like something they would not wish to share with some random guy, though “random guy” is exactly who I am. But they still divulge details that would be easily abused by a malevolent actor.
As such, listening takes more than personal ability. It depends on the interlocutor’s faith in your own benevolence. You reveal the dragon. You give them the space to proceed. What follows depends on them.