Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Venom Burned Like Fire

She had laid herself bare, exposing the vulnerable throat of her emotions without knowing if he was a predator. He had sat in motionless silence for weeks. No movement. No speech. Nothing that might startle himself.

As he sat motionless she paced and waited, speculated and guessed at what he was thinking or feeling. Anxiety. Fear. Surprise. With each passing day she felt more and more sure that she had shaken the very foundation of his traditional upbringing and he was paralyzed with uncertainty.

It was certainly uncommon, what she had suggested, but even at that she had expected some kind of reply. “Are you crazy?” “Flattered, but no thanks.” “Sure, that’d be great.” Something, anything, would have been welcome.

She’d been patient, a virtue she always struggled with, but finally after three weeks she tested the waters with a tentative toe. She reached out now as she had before, electronically, forming words on a tiny screen with the hope he would finally reply to her.

His reaction was surprising, turning away anything that would link him to her. He refused to help her with her work, which he had always readily helped with in the past. He even severed all on-line ties, removing her from his networking pages.

The weakness of his character was exposed as her feelings had been, and her disappointment was like venom, and that venom burned like fire. In her rational mind she knew that his reaction was rooted in his own issues, and in truth had little to do with her. This didn’t keep her feelings from being hurt, however. She was hurt that he didn’t respect her enough to talk to her, and she was sorry for the narrow view he had of life.

With a deep breath she smiled, knowing she was a resilient woman whose wounds healed quickly, and knowing that there were others who would be open to the joys locked in each possibility.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Talk To Me

Whoever said silence was golden had never heard the sound of an anxiously beating heart. They had never paid attention to the sound a clock makes as it reminds you that time is fleeting – tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…

Years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds; all an agonizing jumble in the face of the unknown. How can seconds feel like days, or days feel like years? With each heavy thump of my heart against the resistant wall of my sternum, I wonder if I was right. Was I right to tell you? Was laying myself bare within the confines of my own words the correct thing to do?

A collection of letters formed words on an electronic page in an attempt to shape my thoughts and feelings into something easily understood. Did I arrange them correctly? Did I use too many; too few? Which ones did you find frightening, and which ones shook the foundation of your traditional views?

I’m open; open to questions seeking understanding, if you would just talk to me. Send your own collection of letters and words back to me and I will drink them in, whether bitter or sweet, I only want to quench my thirst.