I am a conversation waiting to happen.
Or conversations (plural).
Many of them disguised as internal turmoil.
The ways of my youth more deeply ingrained than I imagined.
At any one time an image will appear and the conversation I want to have,
(that can't seem to master the trek it requires),
refuses to escape my lips and produce actual sound.
Swallows me whole.
I found this today written on several little post it notes, in my handwriting. The problem is, I do not know if I wrote it or if I read it and wrote it down because it resonated with me so deeply. It is not beyond me to write something that so profoundly depicts my internal state of being at times, but I do not want to take credit for it just in case I am not the original owner. I thought I would share it either way as I believe I am not the only one who has traversed the bridge that growing up silent requires.
Worth noting: I have recently found the voice to the conversations I have in my mind and it has been liberating on a level that I could never have fathomed. There is freedom in speech. Now I am finally able to connect the dots.
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