More than words

It's sort of funny that I'm writing about this, since it sort of defeats the purpose the the entire train of thought. But it's Saturday, and my day is packed with wandering around Pune, my dwindling rupees not burning a hole in my pocket. So here I am, in typical form.

I wrote an entry a few days back summarizing everything I'd been thinking about over these past few weeks. It didn't post correctly, and I ended up losing everything I'd written. At first I was annoyed, but then it started to make sense. I have a bit of a problem, and this blog is evidence of it. For most of my life, I've been obsessed with words. Reading them, writing them, speaking them. I grew up with mountains of books by my bed, notebooks full of short stories and poetry packing my bookshelves, and a mouth that wouldn't stop moving. I came to trust words and sentences and feel like there wasn't anything that could elude their power to bind and condense even the most complex topic. No matter what the issue at hand was, talking it out and writing about it could fix it. As a result, I've become a pretty good communicator. Too good, to be honest. I talk everything out, and I mean everything. It's useful most of the time, but not when answers aren't easily ready or even possible.

And it's true... you can't always talk an issue to death to force it to make sense. I decided years ago to err on the side of saying too much rather than not saying enough. It makes my life easier. Instead of letting little things build up and affect a relationship negatively, I say what's on my mind as soon as I feel it. If anything, I over-think and over-communicate. But that, to me, is infinitely preferable to painful silence. Sometimes it gets me in trouble, but it's been worth it.

I'd never thought of it as a luxury. It was just how I was, for better or for worse (depends on who you ask). But here, it's not that easy. Some things that I've been noticing here just don't make any sense. I've talked it out with myself, with friends, on this blog... but there aren't always answers. And I don't like that. It's uncomfortable, not finding a solution. In my mind, if I can articulate something, then I can fix it. Noticing a problem and then leaving it undiscussed drives me crazy. But I'm not in Orono, Minnesota anymore.

And then there are factors that I talked about yesterday. I can't always say what I think because of what would happen if I did. I know that there are consequences to being too open; I just don't think about them until it's too late. My mom called me last night after hearing about the riots in Pune and then after reading my blog, and we talked about it for a while (ha). I've taken for granted this freedom of expression, whether it's in a poli sci class or just talking with people who I love. It's a strong part of who I am, but it's not unconditional. It's ridiculous to me that I never realized it before. I'm not going to change, but I'll think about it more.

Somewhere, in the midst of one billion people speaking languages that I don't understand, I learned something about silence. Probably about time, I suppose.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Hum Along," Ludo