as a child, i had a difficulty not talking. it persists to this day, though not all the time. the thing is, i can't talk and look at the same time. each needs it's own moment. seeing takes a lot longer than speaking, and a lot more concentration. which is probably why social interaction and i aren't on the best of terms. there is a lot of joy in my life that no one ever knows because they are looking through the wrong eyes. the angles of the things currently in front of me complement each other when i look from a particular posture. earlier this week i looked at a just reopened scab on my leg and contemplated a sweet story more similar to a fantasy version of Osmosis Jones than Innerspace that only now do i cringe at. It began with a spiral staircase that, to our protagonists, whose spacesuits are fucking awesome, is enormous and takes days to walk down, but is, in fact, made up of that dry skin that remains around the edge after a scab is picked and winds down a tunnel of gross inside-of-leg.
i enjoyed myself a lot.
and i couldn't tell anyone about it, which made me not ruin it.
somehow this is different. i communicated it correctly because i could go back and fix phrasing and word choice. i have a hard time speaking slowly enough to choose correctly, or i can't speak quickly enough to stay focused. if i could not speak, and only look, my life would be better. but no, i am often compelled to speak, if not by the world, than by some inner masochist, who prays on my vanity and my desire to connect with others, and brings me to speak.
inevitably leading to disaster.