Words
Being heard. Is not enough. The words. The words are everything. I can speak to you for hours. Days in a row even. Just speak. Not talk.
Talking, really talking is something else. So much I wanted to tell you. To share. So you could know. And somehow understand. It would make it easier.
Alas the words won't come out. They are prisioners of an unknown force's volition. Kept quiet and hidden for so long that they fear the light of day and their own sound. Protecting themselves under a torrent of (too) frivolous or (too) formal subjects.
And yet... Yet they long to come to light (or sound). Even in just a simple whisper. The words search for you. Jostling one another eager to reach the person that inspired them. Sometimes one, two, or three eventually come out. However, there is no discernible order nor sense in them. Unfortunately, this leads to awkwardness and further silence.
I would prefer to say the message is funny and quirky. It's not. Just a (not so) hot mess. So... Being heard. Just not listened to. Nor understood. Not really. We do not talk. We do not communicate. We simply speak. Keeping the words – the real ones – inside until all interaction becomes uncomfortable.
Why do we do that? They're only words. Plain. Simple. It shouldn't be this hard. Probably they would help. A lot. If for nothing else at least they would set us free. Or closer. Or both.
For now the words are just mine. And when I open my mouth they don't even try to escape. My silence screams. Until I find a time and space to set it free.