So many of my stories seem to recount times I’ve stayed silent when I wanted to scream, how I’ve swallowed words for fear of upsetting someone, yet so many of my relationships have ended with silence, without explanation. How can I hate someone else’s silence without interrogating my own?
I regret the moments when I was too chicken to use my voice, to speak up and say, this is what I am feeling, this is what I mean, this is what I want, this is what I need, this is why I’m angry, this is what I fear, this is what hurts me.
I suppose this is what has led me to writing. It’s a chance to say what I didn’t say and wonder what the hell happened, to turn the possibilities around in my hand like a glowing cube and say, maybe this, maybe that.