21 January 2013
I have never thought of silence as being something that could ever, in any long-term sense, be useful for any one. Always, the thought of holding back and not expressing myself has been an extremely daunting and unhealthy sort of non-action in my mind. In fact, omission, almost in its entirety, is a kind of anti-expression that I simply cannot condone. I cannot help but feeling that the truth is not something that should warrant reservation. It seems quite true that all things that are good and pure and virtuous ought always to be acknowledged and honored. Why then, this silence?
I feel savagely imprisoned now; caught, as it were, in some pocket chasm of myself. I feel intense grief also. One might almost venture to say that I am in a deep place of mourning for something great that I have thus failed to create and therefore does not exist on my account. This feeling…this sorrowful, remorseful feeling…this sensation that blades away at my heart… What is this tugging feeling? What dread sensation is this that, of so many separate instances, I should be so often deserving of such a throb? My self aches.
Why does it matter to love and to be loved? Why, at the risk OF love do we then withhold our passions? Why, at the risk of growth, do we reserve truth for that only which does not incite emotional feelings? Why do I sit here writing this instead of expressing myself audibly and exploring the concept with you? What is it that has bound me, so taunting, so