Listening

I want someone to listen to me. My friends listen to me, but I'm afraid of telling them a few of the things I really want to say. My family...maybe I could tell them. But I don't want to say anything that matters to me, either, because whenever I try to, they always misinterpret and turn things into their problem, not mine. They're entitled to their opinion, I know; but somehow, it always turns out to be about them and not me and my voice just sort of fades into the background when they tell me everything will get better.
And maybe it will get better. I'm still quiet, though, and it bothers me that I can't make myself heard.

I'm horribly frightened of judgement, even though I keep telling myself I don't care a speck about what others think. I think I could overcome it, but then again, I don't. It's incredibly frustrating when you think you have the potential power to wield, but haven't got the strength to use it. I'm not strong. Dark and moody, listening to myself think, and worrying about how I am as a person in my standing in the world--that's who I think I am.

Maybe that is why I'm always so surprised when I express what I think matters to me; no one ever expects it when I speak aloud. There's always this return in surprise, like they never figured out I am more than my image. Honestly, it makes me mad. At them. At me. Both. Them for not listening to me, and me for not listening to what I want to blurt out in the middle of a boring conversation about everything and absolutely nothing.

Sheesh.

Even though almost every one of my posts in this blog so far have been either incredibly dramatic, brooding, or reaching for cheer in its increasingly serious self, it's been incredibly satisfying venting here. Although, it also makes me want to go find my life (hint hint: I'm still searching for it, readers). At least if I can't directly tell people what's gotten me so silent and tired all the time, I can write it down, right?

(Still searching for it. Man.)

Maybe this is why people get depressed all the time, keeping their secrets all wound up stiff inside. There's no one willing to stick around and listen. Even I, the whiny hypocrite complaining about its speech problems and hating itself for its deficiency, won't say anything unless someone else speaks up first. Not lonely my arse; it's like being stuck inside a white room without knowing anything about what's going on outside, stuck as you are without knowing a single other thing besides your quiet, eery, stupidly numb white walls.

At least real-life walls have shadows; black is a color you can find meaning to. I can find mysteries, gloom, and meaningful things in shadows. There's more in that void of a dark color than just a blank white inside your head, filled to the brim with words you've never said, and maybe never will.

I wish I could speak. I know I could, and I know they can do the same to me. I've listened; they've got their own share of burdens and speculations they want to talk about. Not everyday problems that have gotten them down; what really bothers them, and what they think. When they want to, and hopefully when I want to, too.

And here comes this whole wishing business again. Anyone who is reading this and emphathizes (not sympathizes, 'cause that just means you did not relate to anything I just wrote), try telling someone what you want to say if it's needling you so badly. It feels wrong to say it, seeing as I'm struggling to do it myself, but at least there'll be someone else other than me who could accomplish what i can't do...yet. I'm still going. I'll try, geezes, I'll try.

Halt! This Is Probably The Bottom Of This Whole Musing Process,

- Ama