the
more i try to explain myself the more i find myself to be inarticulate, unable
to find words. i become lost in imaginings of my own expressions, my own body,
in your language and intonation, in my own desperate inability to describe
things. can we not return to the days of letter-writing? can i not feign
deafness and carry pad and paper with me everywhere? write haikus in answer to
your questions, novellas to show you how we think the same, and how different.
words form themselves beautifully in my head, fall in place and swirl about and
burst forth on paper with each frantic leap of my heart, but my tongue is but a
dead thing, still and cold. i am more and more ashamed every day and i wonder
how long i could not talk before i disappear entirely. how long i could not eat
before i disappear entirely. or would my mouth operate of its own accord sooner
or later and spit forth a flurry of words, participles and conjunctions and
nouns all spinning together in a frenzy.
too
much or too little of anything is bad i suppose but i just wish i could
unstopper my tongue, teach my brain to speak and when i am being looked at, to
not panic. staccato beats of the heart should be words, not fear. i will learn
in february a new language and how to speak with my hands and maybe that will
make a difference. maybe one day i will find the right medium in which my words
sparkle like firecrackers without the necessity of
backspace-rewrite-delete-delete-think a bit-rewrite-delete. alas. i am lying to
myself. i am a writer only and doomed to fail at the spoken word. life-long
hermit. well, there could be worse things.
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