I don't want to talk

Sometimes, I just need to be able to stop.

Stop the chatter.

Stop nodding my head to show I'm listening. Stop listening.

Stop receiving. Stop syncing your ideas.

Just stop. Just be.

Stop instantly.

I am always already conducting a symphony in my mind and sometimes, I just want to let it play.

…

When I have an idea, it speaks to me.

Bright and buzzing, unfolding like a flower.

I can't look away. I can't hear you. I can't talk.

And anyway, I don't know what we're going to have for dinner.

I am having an idea.

I am turning inward to watch it grow.

…

When I hit the end of my rope, I can't tell you what's wrong.

That would require more rope.

But it doesn't stretch. It doesn't flex. It can only snap.

…

You say, “What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong.”

But I'm too far gone.

I am clinging to reality, to language as you understand it, by a single finger.

So I have nothing left to grab your hand.

I can hold on, or I can fall. I can't tell you what's wrong.

First I would have to forage for the words, cook them down, serve them up as a dish you would recognize.

Then you would know. But if I could do that, there would be nothing to explain .

Nothing would be wrong, if I could do that.