My community is made of of people who have the tinge of something different and ancient yet new, the fear of being seen, they are the ridiculed, the hungry, the patient, the impatient, the criminal, the moralist, the novelist, the uneducated, the spineless, the confused, and those with the courage of their own convictions. In essence, there is seemingly a complete likeness to any other community, people or person. And yet, there is a distinct difference that strikes like a bullet through the heart, like an arrow finding its true and only target. It's in the way that we love, not who we love, but the way in which we do it. There is no way to describe it, only a way to express its feeling. It is a delicious and undigestible thing that has no path or design but settles in the narrow tubes of the heart, fluxing like blood and animates the hand that reaches out to touch the flux in another. It is something wholesome and spirited. Empathy encompasses every boundary and just when you think there is no mystery left, you remember a forgotten seed due to a wild flowering verdure.

BY EMILY DICKINSON

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.