Simmering. Never stopping. Always simmering. Simmering at the contours of our cognition. Simmering at the edges of our dreams. Simmering at the rims of our comprehension. At the corners of our being but never vanishing. That’s how our past lives. And how do we make eye contact with it? With pride? With temerity? With shame? With a … More The unending dance of ‘listening’