In human closeness there is a secret edge,

Nor love nor passion can pass it above,

Let lips with lips be joined in silent rage,

And hearts be burst asunder with the love.

And friendship, too, is powerless plot,

And so years of bliss with noble tends,

When your heart is free and known not,

The slow languor of the earthy sense.

And they who strive to reach this edge are mad,

But they who reached are shocked with anguish hard --

Now you know why beneath your hand

You do not feel the beating of my heart.

--Anna Akhmatova

How beautifully Akhmatova captures the pain, which she knew well, involved in knowing and being known. It is this communication, which does not occur through institutions and roles and masks, prepared to meet the other masks that you meet, that is (perhaps?/almost?) unbearable.