I don’t know what I’m saying (but I should)

I’ve always been the kind of person who talks too much – if you recall, my dad called me “foghorn” when I was a child. Sometimes I’d talk to fill in the gaps, because I did not like standing awkwardly in a little circle with strangers holding little plastic cups of wine at yet another work-sanctioned event. The day had to be saved, and I was Supergirl, for a moment. Controlling everyone’s attention was far less exhausting than standing there in silence, but I don’t know if anyone noticed that I rarely chatted about anything personal or truly meaningful. It’s easy to perform when you know that your words don’t say anything, and that no one is really looking at you, they’re looking through you because you are the entertainment for that moment.

Or they’re also suddenly looking at you too closely because they are now drinking cup number three of cheap shitty wine and it’s that time of evening. The proposed appetizers were never sent around, and if you’re not careful, you’ll be on the menu soon.

Then there are the words that explode on the innocent crowd of bystanders, spraying forth in a pepper spray attack. Words cut down the crowd, people fall spitting, coughing and trying to breathe. For some reason, war broke out, and the casualties are not the ones at fault but those who are – were – watching in a detached fashion. They didn’t need to be caught in the crossfire, but it happened and now here we are.

And here we are standing again in the kitchen, explaining fruitlessly the same frustrations until I uttered those few syllables made the air stand still. Those words were brought forth, and suddenly everything felt as if it was made of concrete, sans movement, sans emotion, sans everything. Through the daze of silence came the realization that those thoughtlessly chosen words should not have ever been selected because they had no meaning and no supported evidence. Words fucked up, words made things complicated, rather than pleasant and there I was, no savior, no superhero just an ordinary mess crafted of my own making.

In the end words escape us and we cannot organize them in a perfect fashion. I need an editor to show me the meaning behind the jumble and to see the clarity beyond that which I have spoken, but I don’t have that option, so I have to keep speaking, keep trying to make sense and keep moving on, eventually learning how to find my own red pen.

If you know the secret to that, I’d love for you to show me.

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