There is a word that I’ve been thinking a lot of about lately: curiosity. I’m not talking about how our friends or family worry about us when we’re sick, when we’re late or when we’re stressed. Not that kind of curiosity. I’m talking about being curious about someone’s inner world. I’m talking about our ability to see our friends, children, lovers independent of the undeniable image that we have of them. I’m talking about listening to someone we’ve known for years as if we’ve just met them, bravely witnessing their darkness when they’re talking about their pain, being curious about the reasons why they have chosen their particular obstacles. Because lately, I’ve been thinking that having people who are genuinely curious about our inner worlds is a luxury.
Curiosity is an interesting thing. It’s both emotional and mental. On the one hand, it connects us to life; on the other hand, it can cost us our life (or in less tragic scenarios, an emotional rollercoaster). But I’m sure that not having anyone who is curious about us turns the wealth of our inner world deaf and mute. You might have guessed that when I refer to the wealth of our inner world, I’m not talking about extreme talents or intelligence. I’m talking about a wealth that exists because we are humans that came to this world, we are unique beings that have gone through certain paths and experiences, we live with 8 billion similar people, and have our own unique way of understanding and interpretation. We are all inclined to think that the ones we love are like us while those we don’t love are incomprehensible beings who are different from us. But we’re not as similar to the ones we love and we’re not that different from those we see as strangers.
What does your inner world hold that you don’t know of because no one has been curious enough to ask?