This really resonates with how I experience reading and writing now. The way you describe familiarity narrowing the field rather than flattening feeling mirrors so much of what I explore in my own work. How the body learns what it can hold, what it lets pass, and what it quietly leans toward without needing to analyse it first.
I’m especially struck by your attention to when a sentence releases us. That bodily timing, the early closure, the suspension, the soft drop, feels like such a clear example of showing rather than telling emotion. The feeling arrives in the body before the mind has words for it, and that’s where the truth seems to live.
It reminds me that attention isn’t failing when it becomes more selective. It’s becoming wiser. This feels like an invitation to trust that quieter register of knowing, and to let emotion be carried through rhythm, breath, and pacing rather than explanation. I’ll be carrying this with me, both as a reader and as a writer.
Thank you so much for a wonderful reflection Nat, that meets the piece in exactly the way I hoped for it.
What you name about familiarity narrowing the field rather than dulling feeling is such a precise way of putting it. Attention doesn’t disappear — it learns where to rest. The body starts recognising patterns before the mind needs to intervene, and that selectivity is less about loss and more about trust.
I’m really glad the sense of timing landed for you too. Those moments where a sentence releases us early, or holds a fraction longer than expected, are often where emotion does its quiet work. Not announced, not analysed — just felt, then understood later, if at all.
I also really love how you frame it as attention becoming wiser. That feels right to me. Reading and writing, at their best, aren’t about amplifying everything, but about learning when to lean in, and when to let rhythm, breath, and pace carry what doesn’t need naming yet.
This is such a rich somatic exploration of language and linguistic exploration of body; the pauses, the breaths, the music, that lingering silence in between or at the end. The moments of emptiness, the percussive power of consonants, the ostinato of vowels. Yes, I could live in this one for a while 🙏🏼
Thank you Ana, I love how you put that. The lingering silence and the music are exactly the places I hoped people might stay with rather than rush through.
“Live in this one for a while” feels like the highest compliment — that sense of dwelling, of letting the pauses and sounds do their own work. I’m really glad it opened that kind of space for you. 😊
Mm, “where your breath settles”..? yeah. I caught myself doing it without meaning to, like a tiny inhale-check. Weirdly comforting. Gonna read tonight like my lungs are the editor.
I think there is a new thing here, but apologies if I missed it before: this piece explores the mechanisms of reading as much as the mechanisms of writing. I love that - how to notice our own responses as readers, and how we filter things subconsciously as we read. Really fascinating. Thanks for sharing.
Jessie, I love how you caught on to two aspects there that were hidden underneath the surface
This is as much about reading as it is about writing, and that is where my work comes from, and even out loud too, which I will touch up later — it’s all connected.
And the word “filter”. That is precisely a mechanism our minds use to manage overload and feel our way through language and communication. Over time, filters are created and we often don’t realise it. It’s one of the reasons I’ve found that over time experiences can seem flattened, even with no change.
I walked into your words the same way I walk into a forest at golden hour not looking for meaning, just listening for the way the air shifts. Before I knew what you were saying I felt my breath change, like the kind of pulse that tells you a line isn’t just read but felt. That’s the part that hit the tiny tilt in the ribcage before the sentence even lands in the brain. Your writing doesn’t explain so much as invite the body to notice itself noticing, and that is rare. It’s like discovering the quiet rhythm underneath a familiar song, the part you didn’t know your nervous system knew first. Thanks for opening that door and letting us feel what happens between the lines before we decide what it means.
This is such a beautiful way of meeting the piece 😊
What you describe — walking in without looking for meaning, letting the air shift first — is exactly the kind of reading the work is hoping for. That moment where the breath changes before the sentence is understood, where the body tilts a fraction ahead of thought, is where the real exchange happens.
I love how you put it: the body noticing itself noticing. That quiet rhythm under the familiar song. Once you feel it, you can’t quite unfeel it — and it changes how you listen, how you read, how you move through language.
Thank you for naming that so precisely, and for trusting the felt sense before interpretation.
That kind of attention is a gift back to the work and brings such a big smile to my face 😊
Mark, your essay is profoundly insightful. From initial awareness, through word sensation, body reaction, familiar narrowing, selective attention, sentence pause, closure timing, punctuation weight, rhythm accumulation, repetition pressure, to somatic understanding, you map how language moves before meaning. Every line breathes, every pause counts, showing writers that feeling precedes interpretation itself. Truly masterful guidance. A cinematic, beautiful, and suspenseful read.
It really means a lot, especially how carefully you traced the movement rather than the ideas.
What I’m most interested in is exactly what you pointed to: that sense of before — where the body has already reacted and the mind is still catching up. Once people start noticing that sequence for themselves, the writing almost takes care of the rest (kind of!).
Thank you Be, and you’ve got that spot on. Less words, more room for interpretation and also for grammar to be force in the sentences, rather than a rule to follow.
Thank you so much for such a thoughtful and generous read of this piece.
I really appreciate how carefully you named the somatic side of what’s happening — attention calibrating, the body recognising closure before the mind does, and punctuation as something that’s felt rather than just read.
I love the way you frame reading as something biological and lived, not just cognitive. That’s exactly the register I’m hoping to invite people into — noticing how language lands in the body before we ever get to interpretation.
And waking grey cells on a Sunday morning is a compliment I’ll happily take with a cup of coffee and an almond croissant!
Thank you for meeting the piece with that level of care and for also recognising my writing in the pieces I’m sharing here too 💛 🫶 💛
This really resonates with how I experience reading and writing now. The way you describe familiarity narrowing the field rather than flattening feeling mirrors so much of what I explore in my own work. How the body learns what it can hold, what it lets pass, and what it quietly leans toward without needing to analyse it first.
I’m especially struck by your attention to when a sentence releases us. That bodily timing, the early closure, the suspension, the soft drop, feels like such a clear example of showing rather than telling emotion. The feeling arrives in the body before the mind has words for it, and that’s where the truth seems to live.
It reminds me that attention isn’t failing when it becomes more selective. It’s becoming wiser. This feels like an invitation to trust that quieter register of knowing, and to let emotion be carried through rhythm, breath, and pacing rather than explanation. I’ll be carrying this with me, both as a reader and as a writer.
Thank you so much for a wonderful reflection Nat, that meets the piece in exactly the way I hoped for it.
What you name about familiarity narrowing the field rather than dulling feeling is such a precise way of putting it. Attention doesn’t disappear — it learns where to rest. The body starts recognising patterns before the mind needs to intervene, and that selectivity is less about loss and more about trust.
I’m really glad the sense of timing landed for you too. Those moments where a sentence releases us early, or holds a fraction longer than expected, are often where emotion does its quiet work. Not announced, not analysed — just felt, then understood later, if at all.
I also really love how you frame it as attention becoming wiser. That feels right to me. Reading and writing, at their best, aren’t about amplifying everything, but about learning when to lean in, and when to let rhythm, breath, and pace carry what doesn’t need naming yet.
I’m so grateful you’re carrying it forward.
Thank you 😊
This is such a rich somatic exploration of language and linguistic exploration of body; the pauses, the breaths, the music, that lingering silence in between or at the end. The moments of emptiness, the percussive power of consonants, the ostinato of vowels. Yes, I could live in this one for a while 🙏🏼
Thank you Ana, I love how you put that. The lingering silence and the music are exactly the places I hoped people might stay with rather than rush through.
“Live in this one for a while” feels like the highest compliment — that sense of dwelling, of letting the pauses and sounds do their own work. I’m really glad it opened that kind of space for you. 😊
What a fascinating piece! To think about writing on a conscious level like this is absolutely brilliant. Thank you for sharing this.
Thank you so much @Veronica 💌!
Really pleased you like it 💛
Mm, “where your breath settles”..? yeah. I caught myself doing it without meaning to, like a tiny inhale-check. Weirdly comforting. Gonna read tonight like my lungs are the editor.
Ooohhh @AsukaHotaru ~!
You felt it and that makes me happy in a comforting way (not weirdly).
Do enjoy, remember to breath and that all langauge comes from breath before words on a page 💛
I think there is a new thing here, but apologies if I missed it before: this piece explores the mechanisms of reading as much as the mechanisms of writing. I love that - how to notice our own responses as readers, and how we filter things subconsciously as we read. Really fascinating. Thanks for sharing.
Jessie, I love how you caught on to two aspects there that were hidden underneath the surface
This is as much about reading as it is about writing, and that is where my work comes from, and even out loud too, which I will touch up later — it’s all connected.
And the word “filter”. That is precisely a mechanism our minds use to manage overload and feel our way through language and communication. Over time, filters are created and we often don’t realise it. It’s one of the reasons I’ve found that over time experiences can seem flattened, even with no change.
A beautifullly attentive reading!
Thank you for being on this journey with us.
I walked into your words the same way I walk into a forest at golden hour not looking for meaning, just listening for the way the air shifts. Before I knew what you were saying I felt my breath change, like the kind of pulse that tells you a line isn’t just read but felt. That’s the part that hit the tiny tilt in the ribcage before the sentence even lands in the brain. Your writing doesn’t explain so much as invite the body to notice itself noticing, and that is rare. It’s like discovering the quiet rhythm underneath a familiar song, the part you didn’t know your nervous system knew first. Thanks for opening that door and letting us feel what happens between the lines before we decide what it means.
Belinda!
This is such a beautiful way of meeting the piece 😊
What you describe — walking in without looking for meaning, letting the air shift first — is exactly the kind of reading the work is hoping for. That moment where the breath changes before the sentence is understood, where the body tilts a fraction ahead of thought, is where the real exchange happens.
I love how you put it: the body noticing itself noticing. That quiet rhythm under the familiar song. Once you feel it, you can’t quite unfeel it — and it changes how you listen, how you read, how you move through language.
Thank you for naming that so precisely, and for trusting the felt sense before interpretation.
That kind of attention is a gift back to the work and brings such a big smile to my face 😊
Mark, your essay is profoundly insightful. From initial awareness, through word sensation, body reaction, familiar narrowing, selective attention, sentence pause, closure timing, punctuation weight, rhythm accumulation, repetition pressure, to somatic understanding, you map how language moves before meaning. Every line breathes, every pause counts, showing writers that feeling precedes interpretation itself. Truly masterful guidance. A cinematic, beautiful, and suspenseful read.
Thank you so much Dawnithic.
It really means a lot, especially how carefully you traced the movement rather than the ideas.
What I’m most interested in is exactly what you pointed to: that sense of before — where the body has already reacted and the mind is still catching up. Once people start noticing that sequence for themselves, the writing almost takes care of the rest (kind of!).
I’m really glad it breathed for you.
Thank you dear friend 💛 🫶 💛
Yes, exactly that is the base of your whole essay.
"Door shut.
Keys left."
Intriguing how four words can hold so many possibilities for interpretation.
Thank you Be, and you’ve got that spot on. Less words, more room for interpretation and also for grammar to be force in the sentences, rather than a rule to follow.
Beautifully noticed 💛 🫶 💛
Dear SheHermit,
Thank you so much for such a thoughtful and generous read of this piece.
I really appreciate how carefully you named the somatic side of what’s happening — attention calibrating, the body recognising closure before the mind does, and punctuation as something that’s felt rather than just read.
I love the way you frame reading as something biological and lived, not just cognitive. That’s exactly the register I’m hoping to invite people into — noticing how language lands in the body before we ever get to interpretation.
And waking grey cells on a Sunday morning is a compliment I’ll happily take with a cup of coffee and an almond croissant!
Thank you for meeting the piece with that level of care and for also recognising my writing in the pieces I’m sharing here too 💛 🫶 💛