There were two moments in recent memory where I watched conversations I cared about slip through my fingers—not because I said the wrong thing, but because what I said was too right, too precise, or maybe just too strange for the moment.

In both cases, I had every intention of building rapport, offering something connective. But instead of opening the door wider, I accidentally slammed it shut by presenting something inside the confines of realaty but outside the confines of normalacy… I think this is called “awe”

The first time, I recognized someone by the back of their head—two years after having seen them once before. I didn’t just say “Hey, I think I’ve seen you before.” I gave context. I recalled what they were wearing, what they were doing, and even why I was there in that space. I laid out the whole tableau with perfect clarity, and I watched their faces morph from intrigue to disbelief to disconnection. They were amazed—but not in a way that left room for anything else. No one returned to the original thread we were on. The conversation died not because I said something wrong, but because what I said created a level of tension or fascination that derailed everything else.

The second time, someone casually used a word I hadn’t heard in years—one I had been puzzling over since I was five or six. I had heard it spoken once, more than 20 years ago, and it’s unconnected phonetics lodged in my memory as a sound without meaning. Now, more than two decades later, by assocating two of the four sylabels I deducted it’s meaning from the counterparites non verbal intent I suddenly knew what it meant. So I shared my realization aloud: “Oh! That’s what that word means—I’ve been wondering since I was a kid!” But again, instead of building connection, it broke the rhythm. My excitement didn’t translate. The moment passed, and so did the momentum of the conversation.

In both situations, I meant to communicate friendliness, even vulnerability. What I accidentally did was change the channel.

There’s a delicate line between interesting and alienating. Sometimes the things that fascinate us—our strange talents, our pattern recognition, our long-held curiosities—don’t land the way we think they will. They interrupt, they spotlight, they reset the room.

And I’ve realized: being memorable isn’t the same thing as being heard.

These experiences have taught me that timing matters as much as truth. That conversational magic isn’t just about saying remarkable things—it’s about saying relatable things. I don’t regret those moments. But I now know when to hold onto a story a little longer, and when to trade wonder for warmth.