obscurantism
There is within each of us that silent but restless voice that yearns to be heard or to keep itself from being heard: a scream, a whisper, perhaps a breath or gasp, echoing our impressions of transactions with people that are randomly cast into our lives. It speaks even when not spoken to if for no other reason than it vouches for us a reassurance that such aforesaid affairs should preserve a friendly atmosphere. (These voices need not exactly be words in repetitive marquees embroidered in the fabrics of our consciousness.)
And sometimes, it awes us to find such an understanding echoed by voices in others' minds, a communal property acknowledged by meaningful glances, a gentle tug on the edges of the lips, a smirk, a snide remark on someone's patheticity (sic) under cover of darkness and the chilly air of an airconditioned room, a groping for words to rouse limp conversations in passenger cars, a decisive jerk on one's knee to keep it from brushing another's, or maybe an inner battle to keep ourselves from reaching out to a hand we so badly want clasped in ours.
It is always an option to keep these voices' mouths drawn. For to halt the war's potential of producing casualties is a much, much better consequence than for ties to be severed and hearts disheartened--just as it is sometimes a better option to keep the objects of our thoughts ignorant of our knowledge, not out of fear but for the reason that our sole ownership of them lends it some form of sanctity that makes each day worth another try at life. For once transfigured into words and noble lies, our footfalls tend to go loud in the ears breaking the rhythm, and every step painfully reminds us of a gait we fancy preserving lest the steps become awkward and endanger our fall.
And sometimes, it awes us to find such an understanding echoed by voices in others' minds, a communal property acknowledged by meaningful glances, a gentle tug on the edges of the lips, a smirk, a snide remark on someone's patheticity (sic) under cover of darkness and the chilly air of an airconditioned room, a groping for words to rouse limp conversations in passenger cars, a decisive jerk on one's knee to keep it from brushing another's, or maybe an inner battle to keep ourselves from reaching out to a hand we so badly want clasped in ours.
It is always an option to keep these voices' mouths drawn. For to halt the war's potential of producing casualties is a much, much better consequence than for ties to be severed and hearts disheartened--just as it is sometimes a better option to keep the objects of our thoughts ignorant of our knowledge, not out of fear but for the reason that our sole ownership of them lends it some form of sanctity that makes each day worth another try at life. For once transfigured into words and noble lies, our footfalls tend to go loud in the ears breaking the rhythm, and every step painfully reminds us of a gait we fancy preserving lest the steps become awkward and endanger our fall.