People don’t believe me when I say I’m not good at English.  It was never the class I enjoyed going to, and I always felt like I never understood what the rules were for the great communication game.  See for me, words pour out of my mouth like a container full of liquid, with limited grace and an inability to separate one drop from the next. I speak in circles and talk continuously when I really should be listening but I can’t help it at times, its how I deal with at times persistent anxious feeling that arises from the sound of silence.
It wasn’t always like this, there was a time when I was younger when I didn’t speak, didn’t let my voice be heard or call out others. In my quiet, I felt that there was no reason to speak, people spoke for me, and that was good enough. That period of time continued until I was called to talk, to let my voice be heard, but all that came out were things I had learned because that’s all I felt people wanted.
So I talked and talked and all I would say were what I thought people wanted to get their way.  I didn’t feel like words were my own, they were just a ship to carry me closer to home. They were a way to keep me out of trouble or to deflect shame, if I kept speaking I wouldn’t feel the pain. All words were was a means to an end, but each time spoke the fewer ears people would lend.  I would answer questions, give my opinion, try to talk as much as I could but ultimate it didn’t fix anything under the hood. So they stopped calling on me, the teachers that be, because they felt it would be free, to stop speaking to me. So the silence grew deep, and my words became meek, I felt as though my voice itself was weak.
I couldn’t get out of this trouble, I wonder, it this trouble is the trouble to cause my heart to fall asunder. So I spoke and spoke, just as I speak and speak, to hopefully feel like my heart was not weak. I needed help with my words because regardless of what was said, there was never a feeling of feelings of being whole in my head.
So my words began pouring like a pitcher of water, learning how to speak so they would not be fodder.  So I learned the words that people would feel and repeated and repeated them just like a wheel. Every time I repeated, the words would change, until the words became words that would break from this cage.
The problem with the words that would say I said is that feels like a contract,  a contract with the dead.  I could speak and speak, and people would at times listen, but if there were not speaking, I wouldn’t feel the glisten. My heart would ache and ache in pain because without the glissen,  no frisson which means my vision would fission and leave a division. My mind was split, and these words would travel back until it felt like the words in my head were like an attack.
So I work on my words, day in and day out, to stop this addictive vindictive word spout.  I want to try and embrace the silence, let words be heard instead of defiance.  So I might speak now, and people might listen but to be honest, I would find something missing.  So here is where I digress, from the words, rhythm, and rhyme, because to be honest, I need to talk about real this time.

I realized at some point through all this writing, how beautiful words can be. When I craft a sentence, it feels like watching a tree.  It grows and changes as time passes. The winds move it and the season changes it, but they are there to remind me that giving it a little effort gives it all it needs to grow.  So I leave with this, another lesson another year’s folly, I want to become and change some more, because I have some more words to pour.  Thank you for listening to another year’s adventure, and here are some links of my past posts about words.

Year One : Year Two