Sensitivity is the permission you give yourself to feel.
No more, no less.
Not how much you feel about other people.
Not how much you feel about yourself.
Not how many tears you shed.
Not even how much you feel.
Simply how much you allow yourself to.
To illustrate, a poem from long ago when I was still into rhyming and used to scribble in pages torn from notebooks. Who do you suppose is being referred to here?
In the midst of the masses, I see a face
Devoid of all charm and social grace
Nothing different about her, except for her eyes
Eyes that are serene, thoughtful and wise
Eyes that speak a thousand things without saying a word
Ideas and thoughts that are never hear
that tell of turmoil beneath the surface calm, that is the face we see
Feelings running deep, wild dreams that were never meant to be
Her eyes see everything,
yet love without judging
Respect every human being’s right to be
Understanding that each of us longs to be free
Eyes that cry without shedding a tear
that feel immense pain, but no fear
A heart bleeds for a world gone all wrong
where every lullaby hummed, is a grave-digger’s song
Eyes that shine with a strange, magical light
like the serene moon on a dark night
misted over in the memory of some unknown music that only she can hear
Lost in a faraway land, and yet she’s near
She blinks; the moment is gone
Nothing changes, life goes on
My words are lost in a babble of voice – harsh and loud
She’s gone – just another face in the crowd