Sometimes, it’s easier to think aloud. To let the words out of your mouth and to give someone else a chance to hear them; to see the world through your eyes.
But more often than not, words are a snare. They entangle and confuse. They ridicule and abuse.
I’ve always been the kind who has strived to explain what I feel or think in words. To put a voice to it in the hopes that someone who listened to them would understand.
However, judging from the reactions words spoken tend to bring, perhaps it’s just better to keep quiet.
I guess there is a reason why great historical figures tended to suffer in silence amidst public acclaim. To keep certain secrets, to hide away parts of themselves.
Maybe it’s not because of pride or the desire to seem flawless. Perhaps it’s just because nobody is really listening. Even the ones who apparently care.
Because after awhile, you just get tired of trying.
And so, you fall silent. And in that silence, you string a thousand sentences and hang them up as you would ornaments on a metaphoric Christmas tree. Pretty. But unnoticed.
I used to keep a private journal. I would write whatever I felt or thought about in there. I remember being saner in those years that I did.
Perhaps I should return to that habit.
That way, less can be said, everyone can have happier lives thinking that it’s all fine out there, and I can vent, unobstructed.
Then some day, when I am dead and gone, someone, somewhere, will finally uncover my writings and discover who I really am. And I will be vindicated.
It won’t matter anymore by then. But nothing really does, anyway.
Life is like a passing mist. It is, for a moment, and then it is gone.