I’ve slowed my talking. Not in speed, ゆっくりとはいやい。Slow to fast. But in the sheer amount of words I am willing to use. It has nothing to do with the amount I like you. Both are applicable. It isn’t fear because there are things I could have said. Previously, would have.
Now, I feel no inclination toward the wordy. No enjoyment in the rowdy. No fun in the melodramatic. Is it age or am I just getting over it? Over what? Human communication?
No, the widening gap between words and communicating anything. The slog of nonstop sounds. The uneasy need to blurt something, anything out.
I am happy to have conversations in the subtle way we share the air. Comfortable to have you occupy my space. Glad to have my head uncluttered with worries about what could I possibly say?
I learn just as much by observing as by complicated explanations. Sometimes, more. I trust better in private actions in the unobserved corners of rooms than I do to fabricated language.
Call it a story-teller’s curse.
I wait for myths and truths to reveal themselves. Lights glinting off glass shards on the ground. I know my characters through colors of their coats and half-lidded glances of their eyes. Ironically enough, the melody of words is secondary. The rhythm of a life’s pattern is the heartbeat of the phrases our lips would make. Our breath courses like rivers in the riveted beds our habitual motions carve.
I can see through a glance, a glass, a turn of your head straight through to the core, the blood, the 血 of you. Give me time. I learn quick and permanent when the information is important.
And to see through you is imperative. I will not be satisfied with not knowing. Owl spirit and all. I have always been a seeker, safe in the dark. I am, for all it might appear, watching.
Wait for me.