What do you do when all the words have escaped from your head, through your mouth or at the touch of your fingertips?
What do you say when there’s nothing more to be said, to my ears by the grace of the world’s evolving, encompassing lips?
I always angle myself towards a person or people in small-talk social settings when no talk is happening; it’s a self-defense mechanism. Keep them in your line of sight. It used to be subconscious until I became conscious of it: born, aware, cognizant. A realization representing the other analysis we undertake, discover, and sometimes overshare about ourselves.
Four lines through the seasons
Listing time as a reason
I haven’t finished this story
But you don’t know
I always revisit recent situations and conversations as part of an involuntary personal postmortem, but this isn’t unique to me – but this little knowledge doesn’t stop the anxiety. It’s cliché, but maybe I should stop being so hard on myself? Maybe I can start by not prefacing that statement with, “It’s so cliché.”
Four lines through the seasons
Listing time as a reason
I haven’t finished this story
But don’t you know
I always go in and out of eavesdropping other people’s conversations, wondering if they want me to hear – no, if they want me to listen – if they’re acting out a play for which I have a front row seat and free tickets. I clue in when there’s an externality that tells me to listen, and I zone out when I inevitably become selfish and self-involved once again. When overhearing though, I think, I wonder, and I question… maybe we should stop being so hard on each other?
Four lines through the seasons
Listing time as a reason
I haven’t finished this story
But don’t you know
Everyone fucking hates poetry
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