"We touch others only briefly." Although the lady in question is speaking from a perspective of possibly being immortal, or at least living for a few thousand years, sometimes it seems to me that the finite amount of time I have with the people I love is very short indeed. Today, I feel like that because it's been a day of thinking about all the things I can't say to all the people I can't say them to. I like to think of myself as an honest person, an open person, and I doubt many people would argue, at least with the latter; I'm given to telling people how I feel about them whenever I think I can remotely get away with it.
But sometimes I can't.
And I don't like that. It feels like lying by omission in some way, even though if I look at it logically I can see that there's no way I could actually tell everyone what I think about them all the time. I suppose it's just when I've got something specific that I want to say to people, and I know that circumstances dictate that I not say it, that it starts to get to me. And, not that it would, but lest this post turn into "Have you got something to say to me?" "What about me?" there are more than a few people who are currently on my mind who fit into this category. And if I were going to list them, then, y'know, I'd have done that in this post.
And I can't deny that there's a compulsion, because I wouldn't be writing this post if I didn't have a head full of things that I can't say to people because, mostly, I can't find a way of expressing them that I think will get my point across clearly and simply without danger of misinterpretation. It's a bloody minefield, communication, and eventually it gets to this point, where the things you want to say seem so important - because you haven't said them yet - and therefore so impossible to say - without causing jangle and riot everywhere.
[Viola] My father had a daughter lov'd a man
As it might be perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.
[Orsino] And what's her history?
[Viola] A blank, my lord; she never told her love,
But let concealment like a worm i' th' bud
Feed on her damask cheek; she pin'd in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sate like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
And perhaps it was, but it's not my way of loving people, as most of you will know. (Incidentally, if someone can tell me how I should have formatted ^that, I'd be very grateful. ~s~) My way of loving people is to tell them, whenever I feel I want to tell them, that I love them, or that I think they're beautiful. To hug them close to me when I want to, whether online or in real life, and let them know how much they mean to me. Today's quandaries aren't all about love, though they all involve it in some respect. Some of them are more closely linked to friendship or simple comprehension between acquaintances. But still.
Wasn't going anywhere in particular with this. Just dissatisfied with the situation as it stands.
"If I loved you
Time and again I would try to say
All I'd want you to know...
If I loved you
Words wouldn't come in an easy way
Round in circles I'd go...
Longing to tell you but afraid and shy
I'd let my golden chances pass me by;
Soon you'd leave me.
Off you would go in the mist of day,
Never, never to know
How I loved you...
If I loved you."
This round of angst was probably sponsored by Hallmark cards : as sincere as Roger Moore's acting.