I’m tired of everyone panicking. I’m tired of everyone pointing fingers. I’m tired of everyone jumping up to be offended or angered or right. I’m tired of the outrageous emotions and the up in arms. Violence begets violence, and our words are more powerful and carry more weight than we realize. People often cite my silence, my quiet, as a weakness, as a failing, as short-sightedness. I see my quiet as my ability to detach, to remember what matters, to remember that words can be weapons as much as a bullet or an open palm slap. I remember how ugly words have shaped my life and flavored my environment. I remember how lack of words have helped me feel like I could make what I wanted of a situation.
Our lives are intricate, and our feelings matter, but do they matter to the extent that we claim? Do they weigh as much as we imagine? Do they deserve the projection that we give them? I wonder too, how we determine whose feelings matter more, whose feelings deserve more attention. Why we give more attention to certain types of feelings, why we assume that our feelings are being ignored and act from that base, rather than acting from the base that our feelings are unknown. We assume our feelings are somewhat felt or somewhat known by everyone around us. As if they have a sixth sense that allows them to tap into how we must of course be feeling. As if everyone wandering around isn’t too distracted with their own feelings. Consumed with their own being.
But then there are those who let you be with your feelings, who don’t cloud you with their feelings, who somehow have learned to navigate these high tensions we create. Who are soothing and calming like aloe after the burn, like sunrise after the storm. That’s what I want, liquid like fluid like streams in the spring.