My existence is conceptual, but there are glimpses of solidity

For some reason, I am always touched when someone calls me by name.

I was on a walk yesterday, bundled up in my late-autumn attire, when a neighbor called my name. And I was shocked.

Logically, I know he knew my name. We’ve held conversations, and I’ve lived beside him for years. But still…

There is just something magical about hearing your name spoken into existence and carried by the wind. There is a certain yearning passion it evokes in the soul of the person who lives wrapped in the shelter of their own thoughts.

It makes me feel seen.

It reminds me that I’m a living, breathing corporeal entity.

That I’m more than a concept.

That I’m more than the substance of my mind.