Unspoken

Have you ever wanted to tell someone all of the ridiculous, unnecessary details of your life? To explain the things that have happened in your day that are mundane or strange and have them listened to, without a critical or belittling stare? If only we were encouraged to share our lives with one another in this way. If only I could express, without fear of judgment (or worse, indifference) the smallest aspects of what occurs in my mind. I could speak of the importance of my stocking rebellion this morning and the bitter consequences my toes are now facing. I would tell the world of my camera's dead battery and the artistic frustration I feel at present, as I glance over top a colourful forest of leaves. I would explain that my thoughts are flying in and out of movie plot lines, leaving crossed images of knights and pirates and ballrooms. I could tell you of the three hour class that felt like nine, and the intriguing creatures I penciled during that time. There are metaphors everywhere. Life seems incredibly symbolic this afternoon. But I can't tell anyone this. No one wants to listen. We're all too busy for this kind of thought. So I keep silent, without a whisper of conversation at this depth. Thought is a blissful and lonely place to spend so much time.