Talk
I think I want to write, but the well seems...well...dry.
Maybe it's just that I've been relatively stable emotionally, and so I haven't needed the outlet much - which would certainly be a good thing. But the desire to write is still there, just not the fuel.
It's not that there aren't things that weigh on me, that puzzle me, that need sorting through; it's just perhaps that I just am past the point of really caring enough. If it's not already all jostled and roiling around inside, I'm not about to stick my finger down my throat to try and get it to come out.
Or, am I?
Hmm.
Talking is, in my opinion, always a good move, if there's something that's standing between two people. I seem to need this more than most, with my difficulty in understanding, my tendency to miss things, to struggle with social stuff. But, for better or worse, I've learned that talking isn't always the answer; sometimes it just makes things worse.
I'm afraid of making things worse.
I don't understand. Truly I don't. There must be more to the story, something big I'm missing somehow. But to talk, in this instance, inevitably backfires. So...life goes on.
There is more than one situation like this. In the other, talking - interestingly - crashes and burns spectacularly in the moment. But, after the fact, it seems like maybe it wasn't all as futile as it seemed.
I wish I were wise enough to discern when to try to talk, and when to just shut up and keep it to myself. What is best for the relationship? How do I love my neighbor most effectively in these scenarios?
With the one, I keep realizing my own selfishness, that there is much that I'm holding onto that needs to simply be let go of, that I blind myself to the truth and fail to see how I am very much loved (even if not in the ways I'd necessarily like.) With the other, I just don't know how to reach them, and I fear causing more hurt in the attempt (in addition to nursing some of my own wounds.)
Being able to be completely open and honest...ah, this is such a joy. Some of my very fondest memories are of sitting around a table with my dearest friends, talking and laughing and at complete ease. So very much do I yearn to get back to those days.
Maybe that ship, alas, has sailed. Or been torched. Is it better to accept this and embrace what IS rather than what WAS? Be content with the seat I've been given, rather than pine in misery for the one that I've lost? Accept the shouted conversation across the chasm, amidst the charred remains of the bridge that once spanned the gap?
Sometimes, as I've said before, talking is so necessary. It's the key, it bridges the gulf, it mends and brings us closer.
But this is not a hard and fast rule. Dialogue takes two; monologues can end up sounding like lectures. Sometimes all one can do is to sit tight and try to wait it out, come what may.
This feels wrong, though. Or maybe it just feels wrong because it feels out of my control. And I do so like to be in control.
Or maybe words don't always work, but actions are more important, and "speak louder" as it were.
...now, if only we could talk so I could figure out WHAT I need to do...because I'm pretty sure I'm doing it all wrong.
So, I guess there was some water down in the bottom of the well after all. Forgive its jumbled muddiness, and lack of direction. I've got this frayed and tangled thread spun out, but can't seem to find a hook to tie it to. Ah well.
-M