I've been thinking for awhile about whose right it is to voice shared experiences. This is the kind of thinking that can put one right off writing: what if my own reckoning of the experience bleeds into yours? if my imagining of your experience is a kind of appropriation? There's, maybe, some kind of non-negotiable overlap between what I remember and what you remember and which we know our words, yours, mine, shall never approach. It's not truth, perhaps, but it's something like truth. It's a stillness. It's ineffable.
I have long kept this passage from 2 Corinthians (ch. 12) near to hand, in which Paul says