Ever wonder where your desire to talk comes about?
If you step back and wonder it is a strange little thing. Hard to ascertain whether it even needs to exist, yet it crawls through the crevices. Sneaks into a moment, a fragile one most times. A silent one to follow.
“I like mooncakes too.”
“One time I went to seven eleven and there was butterfingers scattered all across the floor with a screaming homeless guy.”
“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?”
“Ah, I see you’re switching your style up a bit.”
“Reminds me of this MK-Ultra documentary I watched.”
I wonder what phrases you would have to add; I wonder if your bag of phrases to contribute affected you.
If you think of your words as something which comes from above, and you find yourself more often at a loss, you may wonder why they stopped using you as the heaven-sent instrument you’d hope to be.
I guess all the sages stop thinking because a thought is a separate sort of thing – if the monks want to experience something, they just experience it then.
All of these talking inclinations could point back to that simple desire: experience. How often you could hope for the right order of words to unlock alternate paths. Hush about the ending – hush about the replica noon tomorrow.
People say work causes alienation. Maybe one’s very own talking does too.
Write enough thoughts down and you may find yourself unrecognizable.
A bunch of silent eyes waiting for the next sentence. As though talking enough will lift the veil.
The only veil lain finds its laces in each sentence. Deceitfully strewn, soft to twindle, though inevitably another suture toward a zoo exhibit sort of existence.
Do you have the courage to tell the child she’s on her own?