Compartir
I wonder if the Spanish verb for sharing, compartir, is related to the English verb for dividing, to compartmentalize.
When I started this job, I worked very hard to compartmentalize professional and social relationships. I’d frequently be invited to after-work drinks, but the information I gathered at these outings would self-erase like a RAM drive as soon as I went to sleep, for the protection of both parties. So much has changed since.
When we shake hands, I imagine our psychic fingers braid like we could hold each other through anything. My love is pure like an un-compartmentalized, undivided narcotic and now I know my role here is to make a transmission of pure love for you explicitly.
I’ve lately marveled at how often I have been privy to the universe’s gifts. People here love to share. Compartir. People share everything; from knowledge to objects. I have been bequeathed valuable belongings: furniture, vehicles, fabric, instruments. Things keep appearing on the street for me. Every time I find things in the world, I know the universe is speaking to me. I try to take these messages at face value—hit a drum, strike a bell, turn on the lights—but maybe sharing with you means I have to stop compartmentalizing the space between us.
Sometimes I wonder if I have to share you yourself. But of course I do. That is the only way we benefit from the economy of the universe. Sometimes I wonder if I’m still dividing. And of course I am. Because it’s the only way I can convince myself we belong to each other.
