|| The Hardest Conversation
The Hardest Conversation is not with the self. Oh no. For the heart speaks to the mind. The mind- the heart always in great discourse. This is not the problem. The biggest shock to be received is the hitting reality of the muted external voice. The lips that refuse to speak. It is much like the disconnect between the eyes and the legs. There is no motion. There is no happening. Why is this! For some, they see this as the greatest handicap and tragedy of life. For how can one effect change when they have no mouth to speak?
“You live in your own world,” they say, with little extra thought to share. The question is, there are already so many speaking voices, what would one extra add to the cacophony of sounds already displayed and readied in motion? Most speak, but in reality, is there anyone poised to listen? I speak, yet you hear what you want to hear anyway. Your judgment is already set before me. I may make the utterances of a sound, yet still I am not heard, not even closely understood.
I speak with my hands, not my mouth. For this is where my true conversation lies. It is from this place, where I can dig deeper to what lies inside of me and not merely all that you already seek to hear. For my mouth utters confusion, the tongue tied to emotion, as I struggle to think the words through. Yet, with my hands, I gain clearer perspective and sight. For my tongue is still in training. Appendaged to the mind, the anatomical hand speaks what the mouth isn’t yet trained for. Though the lips remain closed, life still continues on.
Speak, you tell, speak! It is much like the slow release of a moanful cry as one is vehemently pinned to the floor, hands firmly pressed against roused cheeks, coerced to utter sentences that they were never built for. Then only to be later judged for those very statements. It is like trying to bear apples when your inventory shows you that all you can bear are oranges. Then you derisively laugh at the tree for the little that you already expect it to bear.
I remain in my human element, yet you think me the perfectionist. Your assumptions form the reality of the conversations that have not yet been fully realized or matured. All that I receive are the criticism and cynicism for my mouth speaks not. How fickle one presumes this type of life, thinking it breeds the superficiality of all things. Yet. I find vanity in utterances that bear little meaning. I have become the mirror image for the one with whom I speak. For they already see what they already want to see. They already hear what they already want to hear. Yet, the mouth still paralyzed to utter the sounds of life. For me, this will always be the hardest conversation, not adding to life the very sounds of nature; the evidence for one’s existence. I speak not, so I live not. I speak not, so I experience not.
I have come to realize how one world can be split into many a piece. It is for us to either deny our true selves to fit in with the rest of the speaking population. Quite the perpetually evasive task eh! Or perhaps, to just press in to the self, and suffer the consequences at any cost.
Writing gives me life and rests at the core of my existence. What I can tell you in a minute, might remain with you for only a second. What I can write you in a second, you get to keep for your entire lifetime.
The battle then, remains between the tongue and the hand. For there is instinctive motion with the flow of the hand, giving the mouthpiece the unmatched competition when entering the discourse of life.
“You live in your own world,” they say, with little extra thought to share. The question is, there are already so many speaking voices, what would one extra add to the cacophony of sounds already displayed and readied in motion? Most speak, but in reality, is there anyone poised to listen? I speak, yet you hear what you want to hear anyway. Your judgment is already set before me. I may make the utterances of a sound, yet still I am not heard, not even closely understood.
I speak with my hands, not my mouth. For this is where my true conversation lies. It is from this place, where I can dig deeper to what lies inside of me and not merely all that you already seek to hear. For my mouth utters confusion, the tongue tied to emotion, as I struggle to think the words through. Yet, with my hands, I gain clearer perspective and sight. For my tongue is still in training. Appendaged to the mind, the anatomical hand speaks what the mouth isn’t yet trained for. Though the lips remain closed, life still continues on.
Speak, you tell, speak! It is much like the slow release of a moanful cry as one is vehemently pinned to the floor, hands firmly pressed against roused cheeks, coerced to utter sentences that they were never built for. Then only to be later judged for those very statements. It is like trying to bear apples when your inventory shows you that all you can bear are oranges. Then you derisively laugh at the tree for the little that you already expect it to bear.
I remain in my human element, yet you think me the perfectionist. Your assumptions form the reality of the conversations that have not yet been fully realized or matured. All that I receive are the criticism and cynicism for my mouth speaks not. How fickle one presumes this type of life, thinking it breeds the superficiality of all things. Yet. I find vanity in utterances that bear little meaning. I have become the mirror image for the one with whom I speak. For they already see what they already want to see. They already hear what they already want to hear. Yet, the mouth still paralyzed to utter the sounds of life. For me, this will always be the hardest conversation, not adding to life the very sounds of nature; the evidence for one’s existence. I speak not, so I live not. I speak not, so I experience not.
I have come to realize how one world can be split into many a piece. It is for us to either deny our true selves to fit in with the rest of the speaking population. Quite the perpetually evasive task eh! Or perhaps, to just press in to the self, and suffer the consequences at any cost.
Writing gives me life and rests at the core of my existence. What I can tell you in a minute, might remain with you for only a second. What I can write you in a second, you get to keep for your entire lifetime.
The battle then, remains between the tongue and the hand. For there is instinctive motion with the flow of the hand, giving the mouthpiece the unmatched competition when entering the discourse of life.