in the quiet moments

I don't know how much of what I say is ever heard outside of myself. Tonight I heard my ears tell of quiet after Jaren commented on the movie, but I had to finish "listening" before I could address the stillness of my words. It got me onto a new discussion about how much I leave others out, at least those who don't think to include themselves when my eyes close in. But even then, sometimes it's hard because I have to update them. I find myself getting frustrated that they didn't already know, having been there the entire time. To them it's all so quiet, and it's hard to remember that. The buzz makes their words hard to focus on, particularly once they've gone dull, then I contend with a roar. Sometimes I even get bored with my roaring, and as such, find myself busying with some procrastinated task that suddenly has great urgency.

When did it all become so intense? That's the latest topic. I think it has always been. I can almost remember it coming alive when I was stuck on a blanket of bright patterns and frayed yarn, watching footed socks swoop by while wet stuck to my chin. Awareness.

I don't have a calendar marked with exact offenses, for which I'm grateful or I may not quite as much enjoy spending time with myself. But sometimes I think it would be an adventure to go back and learn precisely when I discovered that people have false interpretations, or interpretations at all. All I remember is being deeply wounded by misunderstanding and confused at learning all the many ways in which it could occur! Why CAN'T I stare? They're beautiful, or they know they're short. Why must I pretend not to see what's there? I could never understand the answers I was given as I learned that the answers and even the rules were ALL based on perspectives. So I divined my own answers and my own rules. I got so into this practice of inward speaking, that I would find myself vocalizing half a conversation, then argue a point I had already addressed, only to find that was the part of the conversation I had kept to myself. Growing was hard, but communicating was impossible.

While I am still the ignorant offender of many delicate minds, I have become less irritated with the communication process now. I find people to be lovely books and am tickled when I've discovered pages under one's cover. I know we all have them, I don't mean to say we don't. But some people work so desperately to perfect their cover, or protect their binding, that they become impossible to open. Whatever the case, browsing this great library of life begins a silent art (or rather, an inward one) before the lips can touch it. Yet even after I've settled on a good book, I often pause for reflection.

So if I'm being watched you might tell I'm getting to know you or that I'm having a "discussion," but you might not hear anything from me until I find you familiar. It may sound terribly prejudice, but that's the folly with words, they carry sounds.

This boy says more than anyone I've known.
He's mute.


Then there are those you wish you said more to,
just in case they didn't know how you felt.