Subtleties Inside The Silence

Silence is not always silence. Or perhaps there are subtleties inside the silence that transform them. I think both statements might be true. I love to write. I don't even need to write for other people, I am, at times, completely happy writing for myself. It is a deep and abiding love of the written word that dwells inside of me. I would say that I was born in silence. I would say in the silence I heard a voice. That voice told me a story. I've been telling those stories ever since. There are stories I have never told. There are reasons for that. Some of them are too personal to tell. They are the echoes of events that should not be sullied by the voice. They are best in the silence of memory. There are other stories I have never told because they do not belong to me. Some of those stories I would love to tell because they are great stories and perhaps, someday, I can. There are yet other stories, the contents of which, possess the ability to hurt, the ability to bring about unintended consequences. Those stories are best handled very, very delicately. Then there are stories I cannot tell you because they were confided in me either in secrecy, with explicit wish for privacy. Both of which I understand. Stories are amazing things. I am fortunate to be able to tell a few.