Talker's Remorse

You have it again. That sudden shame. Those words spinning like a rusty roundabout inside the playground of your skull. 

This brain activity beats your heart until you consider the life of a mother monk, remaining in your home and in the woods until you are a very old woman. It is probably the coffee, or the pandemic, or perhaps you are simply deficient in both conversation and friendship. You get so excited now to be with a friend that you tend to talk and talk until your talk is like a train tumbling off a track, off a cliff toward silence, toward uncomfortable alterations in energy, toward your mind trying desperately to drag back those cars until they are back inside your body so that you may slow them to a stop at the tunnel of your teeth. 

Why must you say everything?

Now, in your remorse, you make your apologies. Then you inform your meaningless memories to hold steady. You tell your silly little ideas that they are, indeed, silly little ideas. 

And that silence is wise and worthy. 

Say your somethings slowly. Watch the words as they begin their climb out of your belly. Look at them. Don't just spit them out. For the ears that drink your splatter of syllables do not hold shields. What is said is taken and stored in the cellars of their souls and if it is not worth their keeping, then keep it inside. 

And shit it out later.