The words just sit on the edge of the cliff. They dangle their feet and drop pebbles to their incessant doom. They consider being spoken, they consider staying thoughts. They sit cross-legged on the borderline of the dualistic problem.
Why is honesty our culture's disease? Why do we shove embracing arms away and stay silent in the face of listening ears? What about vulnerability makes us want to hide in the cupboard and avoid, avoid, avoid? Maybe we have something to hide, or maybe we just wish we were mysterious enough to have something to hide. Maybe it's pride that makes a man think the depths of his personality are too good to share with others. Or too evil to share with others.
Vulnerability. It's like peering into the reflection of a soul. It's almost an open invitation to stir the waters that have remained still and stationary for so long, and asking for something new to surface. It's like waiting for a tide, and the other person is the gravity.
They say public speaking is the most feared thing, even ahead of death.
I think they've got it all wrong.
oh, the horror.