If I don’t tell you now …

I haven’t written for a couple of days; it’s not that I don’t have anything to say, or even time to say it in. It’s that what I would like to say can’t (or shouldn’t, perhaps) be said. Maybe a better way to look at it is that I don’t know how to say it …

“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.”

Stephen King, Different Seasons

Boy, Uncle Stevie’s got a way with words, doesn’t he?

But that’s where I am right now … there’s something eating a hole in my heart that I can’t share with anyone. Anyone. I’ve tried saying it to myself, as though to someone else, and it sounds so crazy, even to me, that I can’t imagine how I’d share with even my best friend, never mind the world at large.

Some things are just too big for a blog, I guess.

On Rhapsody: Josh Groban, To Where You Are

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