Oftentimes, I think, beforehand, of all the right things to say. I repeat perfect phrases in my head, knowing that they’re a flawless fit for an occasion. Being a wannabe writer, I concoct some of the most poetic things to say to the ones I hold most dear.
Friends and family alike, however, will most often never know a majority of the words I speak to them in my head. I kick myself for not living in the moment like I know I should. I scold myself inwardly for staying up past my logical bedtime thinking. I give myself some of the best advice, and I write the longest, most heartfelt letters. I stay in the shower long after I am squeaky clean for reasons unknown, if not only to have conversations in my head. It’s most lovely to have an imagination, but it gives me headaches to imagine those things I want so badly to say. The words I mean the most are the words I have the least courage to say. It’s a painful predicament; as soon as I get in the situation to put a voice to the words I have all but screamed in my head, the words I’ve put so carefully together just vanish. They say to never hold back how you really feel about someone; you never do know if you’ll have another chance to say it. I know that these are some of the truest words spoken, but the courage still evades me. I keep my heart too incredibly guarded to trust anyone with my true thoughts. Instead, I write letters, type posts, listen to endless types of music, read all different entries out of the Paris Review, and say the words I want the to say the worst to my pillows and other inanimate objects that lack the ability to tell me how dumb I sound piecing together my thoughts out loud. It takes astronomical amounts of courage for me to run out of my house at ten o’clock to one of my favorite people in the world, give them a massive hug, and tell them that I love him for the first time. I’m scared. I wish, more than anything, that I had the courage to open my heart and my mouth simultaneously, because I know that if I could muster that courage, the most honest dialogue could be shared. On the other hand of things, however, I always wonder what people really think of me. I am forever fascinated, beyond belief, over what people think behind the words they say. I know that there is always so much more to say after everything seems to have been said. That, in combination of the time it takes me to try to muster the courage to speak my heart, is the reason I’m most silent in the most serious of conversations. I try to listen to the unsaid. Catch myself wondering if what they say to me is truth, or just what they think I’d like to hear. I try think of a proper way to reply, in the midst of conversation, without letting the guard on my heart down. Maybe I make this process seem longer in my head; maybe the silence that lasts for years in my mind actually seems normal in real life. I hope so. I think entirely too much, I know. One day, I pray, I’ll have the courage to tell the ones that matter exactly what I’ve always wanted to say. One day, I hope, I’ll be able to write a letter containing all the things I was too afraid to write in the first place. One day, I’ll hand deliver the novel of a letter; I’ll look them in the eye, and I’ll tell them “This is everything I never said.” With those words hanging in the air, feeling as heavy as fog, I’ll have the courage to let them read every word I never said while I sit there watching the expressions on their face. I won’t feel the numbing urge to run away and hide, and to never speak of the writings again. I’ll be brave. This is my greatest hope, and I’ll repeat this ritual numerous times, because there are so many people in my life who deserve to hear everything I never said. In writing, the timing is never wrong. I could write a book on things I never said.
Friends and family alike, however, will most often never know a majority of the words I speak to them in my head. I kick myself for not living in the moment like I know I should. I scold myself inwardly for staying up past my logical bedtime thinking. I give myself some of the best advice, and I write the longest, most heartfelt letters. I stay in the shower long after I am squeaky clean for reasons unknown, if not only to have conversations in my head. It’s most lovely to have an imagination, but it gives me headaches to imagine those things I want so badly to say. The words I mean the most are the words I have the least courage to say. It’s a painful predicament; as soon as I get in the situation to put a voice to the words I have all but screamed in my head, the words I’ve put so carefully together just vanish. They say to never hold back how you really feel about someone; you never do know if you’ll have another chance to say it. I know that these are some of the truest words spoken, but the courage still evades me. I keep my heart too incredibly guarded to trust anyone with my true thoughts. Instead, I write letters, type posts, listen to endless types of music, read all different entries out of the Paris Review, and say the words I want the to say the worst to my pillows and other inanimate objects that lack the ability to tell me how dumb I sound piecing together my thoughts out loud. It takes astronomical amounts of courage for me to run out of my house at ten o’clock to one of my favorite people in the world, give them a massive hug, and tell them that I love him for the first time. I’m scared. I wish, more than anything, that I had the courage to open my heart and my mouth simultaneously, because I know that if I could muster that courage, the most honest dialogue could be shared. On the other hand of things, however, I always wonder what people really think of me. I am forever fascinated, beyond belief, over what people think behind the words they say. I know that there is always so much more to say after everything seems to have been said. That, in combination of the time it takes me to try to muster the courage to speak my heart, is the reason I’m most silent in the most serious of conversations. I try to listen to the unsaid. Catch myself wondering if what they say to me is truth, or just what they think I’d like to hear. I try think of a proper way to reply, in the midst of conversation, without letting the guard on my heart down. Maybe I make this process seem longer in my head; maybe the silence that lasts for years in my mind actually seems normal in real life. I hope so. I think entirely too much, I know. One day, I pray, I’ll have the courage to tell the ones that matter exactly what I’ve always wanted to say. One day, I hope, I’ll be able to write a letter containing all the things I was too afraid to write in the first place. One day, I’ll hand deliver the novel of a letter; I’ll look them in the eye, and I’ll tell them “This is everything I never said.” With those words hanging in the air, feeling as heavy as fog, I’ll have the courage to let them read every word I never said while I sit there watching the expressions on their face. I won’t feel the numbing urge to run away and hide, and to never speak of the writings again. I’ll be brave. This is my greatest hope, and I’ll repeat this ritual numerous times, because there are so many people in my life who deserve to hear everything I never said. In writing, the timing is never wrong. I could write a book on things I never said.
think about it :)
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