Whispering Little Nothings

Sometimes, saying nothing at all says a lot. It says I’m angry and it’s only going to get worse by looking at you. It says that problems might just be bad enough that I don’t even want to think about solutions. It says I’m tired of accusing, pretending and having expectations of you. It says I’m at the moment where I need you the most.

These moments go on seemingly without end, only as perforations between us feeling content and alive. They are the abstractions of you fear of being alone, my fear of being happy, and our mutual inability to get the message across.

Those moments spent not speaking; were they hate, or caricatures in you minds eye reminding you not to talk to strangers.

Were you focused on my actions?
… Or my inactions?

Are there stories right now being made in your head, or merely rearranged and held firm with the glue of assumption, all lined up in sequence to make you feel ok with never talking to me again.

I feel trained to believe that this stage is the end of a companionship. Like the body without connection to the brain, such is the people without access to the precious spoken word.

I’ve begun to think this is the probable end to relationships. All quirks harvested and habits revealed, no more curiosity sustaining crop; so it all yields to slash and burn economics.

Six billion hungry mouths packed so tightly, no wonder we get sick of ourselves. Even the recorded voice drawling on while we sleep, television left speaking painfully into lonely space. Gospel shouts to panel walls and paintings of lush French battlefields. War and celebration on the big screens, left open to anyone left on the streets who is unoccupied enough to peep in.

Stereos lined up across countries; tuned in to hear the same radio relayed mix album that we haven’t heard since yesterday. Its barely mixed up with the new birthday announcements and one live segment that comes on just long enough to tell us how many shopping days until X-mass.

Perhaps saying nothing at all will inevitably say so much more than repeating the same empty expressionless phrases that a lover gets all too often. But perhaps too, there is a world inside us that grows smaller and smaller at every day spent at depriving each other of those precious words.

It’s December, again, and the world has some very unflattering ideas still built up about me. The foremost was its instinct for reminding me how bad I was at falling in love. It would trespass all too frequently and speak its mind unto me. “Hey… You got problems babe…”

… And maybe it was still pretty dead on; that damn gravelly voice. But, if I were to ask what it’s really talking about when the subject of love comes up? It would probably have little on its mind but some arrows through hearts and a quote from Plato out of context. The way I see it, the world is out of sorts with what it loves today. Love to you is just another false prophet of hedonism, strung out to dry with garlic necklaces and other fairytale STD remedies.

So we find ourselves another mess of manmade ideas, groping for something organic, and all we find is love? Perhaps. Love is something you can do when no one is looking, when the world is all but a closed eye for the night and you can’t keep it all to yourself.

Love is not in the kitchen making brownies, she is crouching in the bushes, making fun of your lifestyle and cursing the day you chose to repaint your fence.