I've had this word, unspoken, in my head for weeks.
Unspoken.
I don't know what to do with it. I don't really know what it might want
from me. I've played with it, toyed with it as a concept and a tool, and I've
let it sit and steep like a tea.
unspoken.
But where do you start, and how do you stop, when you're polishing stories
like knives and forks and serving truths.
I cringe at the noise of social platforms. I cringe harder at the irony
of pointing it out when I contribute to the endlessly rising volume. Considered
things, talk and text that fit a smooth narrative. Things that speak of a
transparency, but through the lense of creation. Can something formed ever be
free of shape?
Here, I will speak to this, the picture says.
This is something that you can talk to me about, I say into the
screen.
This is what I feel safe to share.
unspoken.
There are things that I preference. That we preference. And this comes
at a cost to the issues that cause us discomfort. That cause me pain.
I am slipping my fingers between the gaps in my thoughts and spreading
them open like the threads of a long, thin knitted scarf.
