Words are my currency, my livelihood, my joy, my weapons to wound, my gifts to give.
And I always have something to say.
Words are my worth, my frame of reference, my safe place.
And so it is unsurprising that I naturally drift towards other people who are generous with their words. We are the storytellers, the history makers. The talkers. The say everythings.
And yet, I tend not to take much stock of the always-there friend who texts a little too often. Or the overly keen one who spends hours explaining the rules of competitive squash to me while I half listen, casting around the room looking for someone more ‘interesting’ (read: reticent). And yet, these are the golden ones. The ones who know that we don’t get a set limit of words in our days, our lives. Who have so many thoughts and observations and things to say that they too worry about dying before they’re done.
And yet, and yet: The Others; those who withhold, who practice wilful silence, they hold something over me. Intrigue me, punish me.
There was a quote I read recently, in an interview with Kerry Washington for Marie Claire UK. She said: “When I think about any of the missteps in my life that I’ve made… it’s because I just so wanted to be truly seen and heard for who I am and was afraid I wasn’t or wouldn’t be.”
This spoke to something deep inside of me. To the Me who feels and sees and understands things and is desperate for others to so the same.
The one who worries about not being heard.
Who dreads being misunderstood, and is petrified of insignificance.
Whose biggest fear is disappearing.
Who does silly things, desperate things, embarrassing things, in order to convince others, but mostly myself: that I am here, that I exist, that I occupy space and time and deserve to do so.
So I say the things. The things we probably shouldn’t say out loud. The things that you can’t take back. The honest things, the scary things, the messy ones. I put pen to paper and voice to feelings.
I always have something to say.