Sometimes I think I talk too much or maybe I don’t say enough at all. I’ve all these ideas’ scuttling around my plate and all I do is play with them rather than digest and express.
I question how correctly I articulate myself and wonder if anyone really gives a shit about what I have to say. I dwell on this, for too long probably and so I babble to over compensate my concerns on the matter. ‘What will people think, I sound like a daft bat’ the usual, unedited internal monologue that catches the wind and escalates.
Am I boring? Oh, that’s a big one. ‘I’m boring you all, I can see your faces before you make them but fuck it, I’m going to keep talking anyway.’
IF all that I said, the words sometimes precisely constructed in my head or the racing motion of mouth that spurts any rambling thought, was the perfect amount of everything to get me to here, to now, to new understandings?
Perfect because I’ve learnt from what I do say but more importantly I’m learning from what I don’t.
This new found minimalist approach of talking less and if I’m honest there are now days when I could easily say nothing at all, is teaching me to listen. Without even trying to listen, I listen. I guess you could say it’s become an involuntary miracle.
I’m beginning to learn new languages – there are millions of vibrations rocking around in silence, let me tell you, it’s a vibrant, buzzing place to be. Plants, animals, a fleeting whisper from wise spirits, they fill the silence without any force and communicate in ways that exceed our limited dictionary. I like to talk but listening is where the real treasure is buried.
I’ll say no more other than silence really is golden and I’ve a feeling it’s going to make me very, very rich.