And she let him touch her face and hold her down. Her compassion was boundless. She let him talk and confess everything and never said a word, silent as a saint. She felt moved by his neurosis and self obsession, worrying slightly that she was feeding into it, but not wanting to confront him. She didn't want to change people anymore, she didn't want to make them see. Because it seemed like something you couldn't do for another person, unless they were already accepting of it, unless it was natural. She had learned this gradually, even painfully, until she realized that the blind cannot even see their blindness. It is a well protected ailment.

It hurt her, because she found herself moved and affected by others so often. But she knew that she, too, was blind to things. She recalled small phrases that she had heard over and over and then the turning point when she actually felt it, and gave it meaning. Change is only something the self can do, so she stopped trying to inspire it. She didn't want to play the muse. She was less frustrated that way, and more accepting of people as they were.

So she laid there and let him speak, not really listening because the words weren't for her benefit as he reaffirmed everything he knew by saying it outloud. She wondered, how much of our conversations are masturbatory like this? And will I ever find someone to have a real dialogue with? To create each other constantly, grow and mutate like lava bubbles. She didn't want stability, she wanted flux, a security with that uncertainty, to affect the world as it changed her in return.