Back on the empathy and empath topic… One area I have a special gift is in the area of extracting a person’s emotional state when they write, or reading between the lines of what isn’t necessarily written, but is thought by the person at the time of writing. For instance, someone might write something that is obviously angry. most people reading the message would read anger and take all of the statements made at face value. I will read angry, but each individual statement, choice of word, arrangement of the paragraph, arrangement of a sentence, etc… will have individual feelings. I will also read lies in the middle of truth. In addition to anger, I can usually tell all of the undercurrent emotions.
I used to wonder why I would get upset at emails written at work. A very simple email could bring about a myriad of emotions that come out of virtually nowhere. Some emails seem like they were yelling at me. Some emails were haughty; some emails insecure. Blogs even can speak volumes to me about the person writing them, especially if I have a small profile already on file in my head for that person. I don’t know if I have some sort of empathy towards words or the person behind the words rather.
I was telling my husband tonight another bizarre thing that I do and that’s associate a lot of things such as people, words, writing, etc… with colors. This isn’t the same thing as reading auras. I’m not seeing a “glow” about people. Rather, I give colors personalities and sometimes people strike me as a particular color. Or a word will hit me as pink or avacado green or icy blue. I told him I saw him as orange. Not just any orange, but a nice spicy orange.
I don’t know. The more I talk to people, the more bizarre I think I am. I like to go deeper than most. I am affected more than most. I take things to heart more than most.
I found this awhile back when trying to make sense of my sensitivities. While I am not physically wounded by intense environmental stimuli, everything else is pretty accurate.
“The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive.
To him…
a touch is a blow,
a sound is a noise,
a misfortune is a tragedy,
a joy is an ecstasy,
a friend is a lover,
a lover is a god,
and failure is death.
Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create – - – so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.”
-Pearl Buck-
