I’ve realized, when I write, that I tend to adopt a certain tone. It reveals itself to me as somewhat prosaic and often a little lofty. I’m not sure why I do that, exactly. It occurs to me that I don’t believe I would be able to express myself adequately at all, should I abandon this adaptation of my monologistic voice - much like a professional singer couldn’t sing a piece made for them without sounding as they do. It has simply become my sound. The way I identify me as me.
I don’t intend to come across as presumptious or holier than thou. And, yet, I cannot account for the myriad of ways my words will land on the viewers. It’s not that I feel inherently responsible for it, it’s that I feel frustrated by it. Because, as I see it, possessing mastery of a language and it’s many nuances and implications doesn’t help you if the receiver isn’t understanding what you say, what you mean, and otherwise intending to convey. What good is a language when it’s only point of convergence is superficial? Sure, it all looks the same, but I dare you to use that shovel.
It’s stopped me in my tracks often, when I’m made to explain myself but am already sure of the notion that whatever I am about to say will land on either deaf or ignorant ears. And without a willing mind, or a modicum of imagination, I’m once again misunderstood and feel utterly as though I have wasted my time. It happens with everyone, and I feel helpless. I won’t stop trying, but each attempt touches the bruise of loneliness.
I could continue to try to adjust myself.
But I am hoping that here is the one place that I won’t have to. I’m exhausted with choking on my own ideas and squashing the parts of me that feel ill suited for the world around me. People don’t speak this way. Only I do, inside of me. (When I’m vacantly lost in thought, when you’re explaining your day to me and I’ve lost track of the last thing you said. Because your bosses reaction to your mannerisms was more interesting to me than your reaction to your boss. And I’m sorry for that, because you haven’t thought a single thing through that you’re saying. You’re just talking, and it doesn’t even matter to you if I really care or not. Only to me, who wishes I did when I clearly don’t.)
I don’t believe any of this to be an over-anaylization. In fact, I believe it’s the correct amount. We’re not going in circles, friend. We’re walking along a tangential beam, brushing new color into our pallets with each place we visit and each facet we explore. But it’s funny, how misunderstood that is.
I’ve always hated it, when people say “You’re over thinking” - It isn’t true. It isn’t possible. But, I suppose, that’s why you’re happy and I am not.
I’ve already jumped to the next rock, and I’m questioning my ego again. The nasty thing. Because it yeilds a whole other conversation on deservance and rights and bladdy blah. It’s all connected. I’m just not smart enough to do anything with it.
I’ll work my way around to the stories, because I need them to come out of me. I will write them with as much truth as is humanly possible, and I will admit to all of my wrong-doings and disgusting habits. And it would be beautiful and kind of you if you would believe me, every word I say. And somewhere in there, I sincerely hope I will find a stability to hold onto and create an image or implant an idea of worth. Because, at this very moment, I am absolutely not convinced of mine.
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