Epi_Speaks on Speaking
Even though I have nothing to say, I wanted to write something today. I know it’s wrong, usually, to talk just for the sake of talking but…
I miss the excitement of passion, the dizzy feeling of ideas flying around me. I miss the weight of words. I miss the way well-formed thoughts tasted good after spoken. Not necessarily sweet, not necessarily pleasant, but good (like a crush’s hand unexpectedly lingering on your knee, a clumsy kiss landing on the edge of upturned lips, a laughing child’s drool on a fresh work shirt, the bite of a lime softening the burn of tequila). As if, by shaping a sentence… by moving air, forming it with tongues and teeth and lips, you gain the ability to create something more like love than love itself. Something, good, and maybe even beautiful.
I miss that feeling. As a kid, I would marvel at the way words felt slipping around my tongue and through my lips. I’d intentionally say them over and over, until they became foreign, a shape composed of air and it’s desire to be, or a taste maybe. I can’t be sure when I lost my words (who among us ever really notices something we love leaving, until it’s already gone?). I just know I want them back.
I keep saying that I’ve recently awoken. As if years and lifetimes and moments had passed a sleeping me by until maybe one passed a little bit too closely. Was I startled awake? Or slowly called to attention? Was it the almost-subconsious fear of collision that jolted me back? I’m wondering now, a week into all this, why He’s done this. I mean, I’m awake, surely I should be thankful for that… but I’m lost as well. Groggy, perhaps. My words catch in my throat, glue themselves to my lips. Yes, I’m awake, but I’m also finding myself mute. (Or maybe muted. Is it, a lack of ability to speak, or the lack of someone willing to listen?)
Then again, and perhaps I’m wrong in this, but maybe I’m not mute or muted, just self-limiting. What if it’s not about being able to go back? I’ve spent my life using words to shield myself from everything & everyone. I stacked words so tall and deep that even I had to work to find myself among them. I was protected but disengaged. Safe, yes, but… asleep. Maybe, and I’m not sure about this, maybe it’s time to use my love of words to love people (as opposed to… pushing them away). I’m not the person I used to be, and this isn’t the life it was. I am safe. There’s no one out to hurt me, no one (this is what they’re telling me anyway) to protect myself from.
It’s time I guess, for me to live with words instead of for them (you can only understand if you’ve been where I’ve been, but it needed to be said anyway).
My only question is… how?