The idea of someone else ever knowing me like you do disgusts me.
Of all the beautiful words ever said to me that were later proven false, the most painful are those words — because I would still assume words like those spoken to me now to be sincere. Why? (Fortasse requiris.) Because when one willfully deceives (unless one is a remarkably accomplished liar), one is positive and does not use phrases like “disgusts me”. Also because such indignation and repulsion seems trustworthy to me — far more trustworthy than theoretical ethical convictions. I trust those whose natures seem instinctively moral rather than those who seem to have learned it as a conscious habit — and disgust is an emotion I associate with moral natures, with those who have the habit of seeing things as beneath them. (Hence moral natures are arrogant natures in the eyes of many — and not merely in their eyes.) Indeed, disgust might be the primary emotion I associate with the moral — even though I have reached an age where I am disgusted with disgust.
Those words came to mind while watching our bass player, Scotty, scratch his back on a doorframe the other day. At the moment, I thought that real intimacy is the point where you felt comfortable having someone scratch your back for you. I think now that such intimacy does not come to some people ever — perhaps to most people even.