Unmoving

John Green says that there's a certain way we talk about things we don't talk about. There's a deep-down, unconscious, unacknowledged, part of myself that knows what he means. That knows how exact it is. That knows how to practice it. That knows it's true.

There are people who stay in touch. People who think to send a message. To make a call. People who reminisce. Who make small talk, who share events without withholding, who stop by just to say hello, who check-in. Do you ever wish you were one them? One of the many who do. Or, are you more like me? Are you bad at people-ing? One of the gracious, shaken, few. Maybe you know it's true.

You let time pass. You watch people come and go. You let them leave. You let yourself slip away. Whether or not you mean to. It's something that happens. Something that's true.

It's not a lack of empathy. It's not because you don't miss them, or think of them. When you do speak it's always good to. You can listen with excitement to their joys and triumphs. You mourn along with their troubles and pains. You admire their resilience and accomplishments. You're proud of them actually. You wish the best for them. It's true.

But then, this is where it falters. Each and every time. When there's a gap in every exchange. One you can't bring yourself to mend or bridge. When it's your turn to take the floor. When it's your turn to volley, to reciprocate, to take part. When it's your turn to say something. It's the moment that you realize - my life is a jumble of things that haven't changed and things I can't bare to say.

The truth of your own unmoving. Everything you haven't become. Everything you didn't do. It leads to a failure of words. A failure you can't put into words. A failure of even wanting to. It's been hard enough to witness the events yourself, harder still to share them with company. For better or worse, it's true.

Everything that's happened. Everything that's different. Everything before it was, everything since. It's the ghost of a memory of a life you never lived, or barely did. One that doesn't belong to you and one that you don't belong to. It's hard to admit, but it's true.

"Whereof one cannot speak", Wittgenstein says, "thereof one must be silent". And so you don't say a thing. You stay away from people and places. You avoid conversations. You keep to yourself. It's not an excuse, buts it's true.

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