Too Long For Twitter

Stray Thoughts: Two

Some day, I shall gather up all my unfinished sentences and talked over comments and silenced words.

They have unrequited purpose.

They are made useless.

They sit like a bag of stones in my chest.

Hi. I talk a lot. It’s a nervous habit. It’s something I do when in the company of trusted friends. Sometimes it’s gold and sometimes it’s shit and sometimes it’s nothing other than shouting into the abyss.

Once I have them all gathered, I shall first pet them and give them ear skritches and make sure they are okay. Then I shall pick them up, one at a time, sit them in my lap with my arms wrapped comfortingly around them and give consideration to what they convey.

Then, lovingly, one by one, I’ll apply the five year rule. Meaning, is it something that will make a difference in five years for myself, loved ones, friends and the world in general. If not, I don’t have to inundate people with my thoughts, asked or unasked. Those I process singly, on my own and try to learn from them.

As an example, not everyone that asks for honesty actually wants it. And it varies from person to person to person to person how much honesty I can dare.

Imagine if like, trying to decide what will have made a difference five years from now? Even with my intuitive abilities, as they’re attributed, I can’t predict national tragedies, personal ventures and tragedies of my own and of beloveds, to know beyond a shadow of a doubt.

So, I suck at it and talk less, but still too much. Which is weird for me, because I always want all the options available when given a challenge. Not just the ones I “can handle.” All the options. All the information. All your words are belong to me. I want to make the best possible choice given all available viewpoints.

Some people only want to hear options that they would want to do. Some only want affirmation that their decision was the right one because it’s all they can handle. Some, like me, want all the options, painful or no.

I will not pretend that I will always handle information with good graces. I may get upset or overreact or think out loud, manically. It’s a process I think I learned from my mother, and it’s hard to break (the thinking out loud thing). But I also drop some funny fucking jokes along the way. That’s a compliment paid by husband, recently.

Something I had said was not only funny but fucking funny.

See what I mean about using more words? Just one more in that statement was enough to make me float on a cloud for the rest of the day.

Off for some Christmas frolicking with hopes that we all giggle more than we groan today.