September 14, 2011

Talking To People About Things

There are times when I am like, “I am a pretty damn good conversationalist. I can get my ideas across, I can be witty and funny, I can listen and give good advice, and so on. I got what it takes to conversate.” I go out. I turn on charm. I may not be the best, but I can charm some people. I can orate. I can give orders to my crew. I can make assignments. I get stuff done. I do stuff.

Being semi-competent in conversation has just been doing great things for me recently. I feel like I’ve been getting really close to Cara and Aesa with all this talking we’ve been doing. Deep conversations. Good conversations. The kind of conversations where you leave knowing there’s a connection there, a strong one, that’s only going to get stronger.

Then there are conversations with my parents, where my wordskills completely fail me. When I can’t get across what I need to say because they won’t listen, no matter how I put it. Where every time I talk to them, it becomes more and more clear that wanting to be close to my parents is not a mutual feeling. I leave each encounter feeling the gap between us widen.

Words, like Space, have a terrible power. Good and evil, all in how you use it. All that shit. I spend hours at work thinking of petty and spiteful ways to use words to get revenge. I think of scenarios where I can annoy the shit out of those in my way, or make them feel how they make me feel. Or maybe I just roleplay, in my head, screaming at them, loudly and insistently, telling them off and telling them exactly what I wish I could without insulting them. Just yell “Fuck you, you selfish assholes!” Just scream until things somehow get better. Like screaming ever helped anything.

I talk to people about things. I talk to them when I am tired, like now, and I tell them things that I wouldn’t say otherwise. I tell a certain someone about how I love them and wish I could move our relationship forward into something beyond online sexytimes. I tell friends how much they mean to me and everything I feel about them. I tell people about how I used to sing songs about how much I deserved to die and how I’d kill myself soon, surely. I sing those songs to myself. I argue with myself, then tell my puppy dog about it and cry. I make plans. I execute on plans. I laugh. I enjoy myself. I talk to people about things.

I’m talking to people about things.

Goodnight.

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