Words usually come easy to me.
That’s what comes with the territory
of being a self-proclaimed professional talker—
and a lover of talkers.
of being a self-proclaimed professional talker—
and a lover of talkers.
I’ve always believed
communication is an art in itself.
Self-expression is a passion to most
and a torment to many.
communication is an art in itself.
Self-expression is a passion to most
and a torment to many.
Lately, I’ve been struggling
to find the words.
The letters.
The grammar.
The conjugations.
In both English and Spanish.
to find the words.
The letters.
The grammar.
The conjugations.
In both English and Spanish.
It feels like a game of hide and seek
where the seeking never ends
and the finding never happens.
where the seeking never ends
and the finding never happens.
Hidden in the fog
that settles behind my eyes,
I reach for anything.
that settles behind my eyes,
I reach for anything.
A syllable.
A vowel.
A consonant.
A vowel.
A consonant.
Anything
that might translate the stillness—
the heavy kind—
that’s taken up residence
in my life.
that might translate the stillness—
the heavy kind—
that’s taken up residence
in my life.
They say it’s good
to sit with your thoughts.
To sit with yourself.
To connect with your emotions.
to sit with your thoughts.
To sit with yourself.
To connect with your emotions.
But what do you do
when you have nothing
and everything
to sit with at once?
when you have nothing
and everything
to sit with at once?
When it’s all too much,
yet nothing connects
long enough
to make sense?
yet nothing connects
long enough
to make sense?
The puzzle pieces are there.
They have a picture.
They just don’t fit together.
They have a picture.
They just don’t fit together.
Some days, the unknown felt distant.
Now it presses close.
Now it presses close.
Loud.
Sharp.
Sharp.
Who will I be in ten years?
What will I do in five?
How will I feel tomorrow—
or even later today?
What will I do in five?
How will I feel tomorrow—
or even later today?
The stiffness settles in my head
and refuses to leave.
and refuses to leave.
The needles are there—
sudden, precise—
pointing only toward their own relief,
indifferent to mine.
sudden, precise—
pointing only toward their own relief,
indifferent to mine.
Some days the lights are too bright.
The sounds arrive all at once.
The sounds arrive all at once.
And the words?
They’re mute.
They retreat to the deepest part of my mind,
hiding behind the pain.
hiding behind the pain.
No amount of books, art, nature,
or even SpongeBob
can coax them into stepping forward.
or even SpongeBob
can coax them into stepping forward.
That’s when the question surfaces—
slowly, carefully:
slowly, carefully:
Who am I
if I don’t have words readily available?
if I don’t have words readily available?
In a world that insists on labels,
what do I do with the unnameable?
what do I do with the unnameable?
The thoughts that exist
but can’t stay long enough
to be named?
but can’t stay long enough
to be named?
Who am I to a world
that always has something to say—
something to define,
something to categorize?
that always has something to say—
something to define,
something to categorize?
What do I have to offer
if not my words?
if not my words?
I’ve always believed
that reading someone’s thoughts
gives you a glimpse
into the world they live in—
that reading someone’s thoughts
gives you a glimpse
into the world they live in—
a way of seeing beyond your own.
So what happens
when I can see my world clearly,
but no longer know
how to show it?
when I can see my world clearly,
but no longer know
how to show it?
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