Lost in Metaphor

"Common Sense" is on the long list of metaphors I have never been able to make sense of in my own strictly personals. Please donae spell it out for me. I have enough confusing explanations in my head already. What is common about senses? Hearing seems vastly different than Sight in every species I have studied. Compare human hearing to human hearing and. . . Have you ever listened to humans argue? May I use that as evidence that speaking the same language is no guarantee of communication?

Of the too many theories I have heard and read about my condition since my first therapy appointment in May of 1972, one is that the body of symptoms currently being called, "PTSD" are caused by the way I process trauma more than by the trauma, itself. Shared trauma can produce a stunning array of symptoms, ranging from daring heroism to catatonia with endless mixes between the extremes. Do any two bio-systems experience the same events in a shared trauma? Does any single bio-system experience the same reaction to different trauma?

Getting back to the strictly personal. . .

This morning I am allowing myself to imagine that there is such a thing as full sensory memory. I don't remember words. I remember with all my physical senses. When I remember an event, I remember taste, touch, sight, smell and sound. If necessary, I then translate those senses into language. Words are never enough. Have you ever tried to describe the flavor of a strawberry to someone who has never tasted a strawberry? For a proverbial Kodak Moment, this is a wonderful blessing. I get to relive my first taste of strawberries, over and over again. Super nummy!!! I even get to feel the breeze which brushed my cheeks while I savoured, again and again. In the case of traumatic memory? Yucko bucko, it doth sucko. . . Big time. Do I often feel the need to re-recover, too? Are the metaphorical platitudes going unpredictable places? A physical fact is that physical light hurts my physical eyes. No shortage of profound light metaphors in the world. . . Most of them bring physical reminders of my light sensitivity. Offer me something on a metaphorical silver platter and I smell silver polish. Polishing silver never made my list of domestic service jobs. The literal silver polishes I used were quite toxic to my literal senses. I still can't believe anyone would put that stuff in their mouths.

Anyhoo. . . Leaving the just-a-patient theory be for now. . .

I am currently in South Central Tennessee on an Eastward course. Still navigating more by the compass built into Boy Toy's rearview mirror than the atlas and stubbornly refusing to look for the efficiency in rushing past all the good stuff. Hubs and I are texting "Egg Shell Sweeping" analogies sprinkled with details of his handling the event-planning portion the ? ? ? Do we have a name for this yet?

^It^ has been denamed in the merging of tongues.

^It^ has been defamed in the quest for just one.

Processing. . . Letting the healing mysteries lead the dance. Wondering if the Tenessee hills tourist shops have a Harry Potter broom. I feel serious, literal urges to dance with a broom.