Sunday, 28 August 2016

Words failing

I'm not good at talking. Words, my best friends, my stock in trade, don't spill from my lips as easily as through my fingers. I can't look you in the eye and say anything clearly, because I'm so afraid of being misunderstood.

But there's something I want to tell you, something I want you to know. It's the shadow of a dream I had, an unbidden wish that decorates my night like the stars. It is similarly unattainable, remote and ultimately powerful.

I want to say the words because there ought to be no lie, no deceit, no fear. There ought to be honesty and how can we be honest if every word is curated? How can it be real if I write, rewrite and edit each sentence to be elegant before all else?

The words must be spoken to allow me to fuck it up; to look you in the eye and see that you understand this is truth, however badly expressed.

If it were written, you would be moved to know of the dreams I have in which we meet, spend time together, love one another with no agenda. You would be entertained to hear how I wistfully hope for another such dream with you. You would doubt me if I described just how I find you attractive, and yet want it to be true.

But if I spoke to you... if I spoke you would hear only that I want more dreams of you, as though it were your job to provide them, and I would clumsily say you aren't an objet d'art, leaving you to think I don't like to look.

And while I feel, I must think of your feelings too and acknowledge these are words you may not want, in any form. I used to be sure that you would reject my clumsy confessions utterly. Wishful thinking has changed my expectations into a maybe, but...

Maybe is not enough to build a dream catcher.
Maybe is not the way to learn to speak.
Maybe is not how we harness the stars.

Maybe is how I can wait until tomorrow.

Maybe then.
Maybe not.

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