compelled to spill the beans or
dot the i's and cross the t's,
expand reality to match my own.
Understanding thus set on a
pedestal, results have not been good,
historically. For what I've learned
through trial and error, mostly
latter: it doesn't matter, really,
not to some, at least.
Some things are better left unsaid,
apparently. If someone wants to
live a life with blinders that
prevent full line of sight, then
who am I to pull them off
so I can say I tried to tell you,
wanted to communicate?
I'm fine with this, will hold
my tongue among those who
so obviously like my silence
better than my conversation.
If I were to talk, to open up,
to let it fly, the chances are that I
would say some things they'd
really rather never hear. I know
this only from the fact that saying such
things loudly in the past have
failed to find a way through
erected barricade of blasé
and apathetic interest in
the realm outside of themselves.
Whispers, neither, so I've got an easy
life ahead, lips sealed against
a flood of things, all said before
a thousand ways, content now
to dissolve into the quiet.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013
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