I think too much.
Sometimes you have so much to say but you bite your tongue and say it all in your head instead. Or you type out a long long mail or a text and delete without hitting Send. For a moment, you read the entire thing, reflecting on the raw truth of every word written. That's truth right there, in your hands. Its your every thought in words, uninhibited and unrestrained. You read it, all those words you will never allow yourself to say out loud, and you delete. You erase every evidence of the existence of your insecurity and your fears. You start afresh on a blank page, blocking out what is true. You pretend like it never happened.
Slowly you start doing it more often. Concealing more than revealing. Choosing silence over uncomfortable confessions. Wrong over right. Easy over difficult. Lies over truth.
Till it all becomes easy. Till its not a concerted effort anymore. Till it is hardly an effort. Till it becomes you.
Until you are left a shadow of what you were, and your relationship is just a delicately fabricated web of lies borne out of good intentions. And you are caught up in the irony of living a life entirely manipulated by you, but one you have little control over.
I think too much. That is my excuse.
Sometimes you have so much to say but you bite your tongue and say it all in your head instead. Or you type out a long long mail or a text and delete without hitting Send. For a moment, you read the entire thing, reflecting on the raw truth of every word written. That's truth right there, in your hands. Its your every thought in words, uninhibited and unrestrained. You read it, all those words you will never allow yourself to say out loud, and you delete. You erase every evidence of the existence of your insecurity and your fears. You start afresh on a blank page, blocking out what is true. You pretend like it never happened.
Slowly you start doing it more often. Concealing more than revealing. Choosing silence over uncomfortable confessions. Wrong over right. Easy over difficult. Lies over truth.
Till it all becomes easy. Till its not a concerted effort anymore. Till it is hardly an effort. Till it becomes you.
Until you are left a shadow of what you were, and your relationship is just a delicately fabricated web of lies borne out of good intentions. And you are caught up in the irony of living a life entirely manipulated by you, but one you have little control over.
I think too much. That is my excuse.
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