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Words weave the tall tales,
Painted truths on fragile walls,
Silence speaks between.
There’s a dance in the art of words, and if you’re telling, then I’ll be told. See, in a world full of loud voices and quiet ears, the balance often tilts towards noise rather than nuance. But for me, it’s always the nuance – never the noise. It’s a game of push and pull, a tango of truths and half-truths, where the tellers spin their tales with a flick of the tongue, and the told nod along, caught in the rhythm of the narrative.
But let’s not pretend this dance is a two-step. It’s a labyrinth, winding and twisting, where every sentence is a hallway and every word a door. The tellers are the architects, painting walls with opinions and hanging facts like art on crooked nails. They say, “This is how it is,” and we, the told, nod appreciatively, even if the room feels a little off-kilter.
Isn’t it funny how easy it is to be told? To sit back, let the words wash over us, and accept the frame we’re handed? We rarely stop to ask if the canvas is stretched right, if the colors are true. We listen, but not with ears that question, and certainly not with minds that challenge. If you’re telling, I’ll be told, because it’s easier that way. Easier to be led than to lead ourselves.
But artistry lies in the spaces between. It’s in the pause, the quiet breath before the next word, where the real story often hides. It’s the unspoken, the ‘unsayd’, the barely-there thoughts that flicker like shadows on the wall. The tellers might paint the picture, but it’s the gaps, the empty spaces, that make the art come alive.
So here we are, caught in a delicate dance. If you’re telling, I’ll be told—but only just enough. I’ll nod along, but my ears are pricked, my eyes scanning the ‘unsayd’ for hidden meaning. Because in the end, the told have a choice: to be mere spectators or to step onto the floor and challenge the dance.
So keep telling. Keep spinning your tales of how it’s all supposed to go. That this is written. That you’re meant to do xyz. But know this: I’m listening with one ear (because I don’t disrespect people) and fighting with every ounce of grit I’ve got left. If you’re telling, I’ll be told—but I’m rewriting the story with every breath, every step, and every damn time I refuse to be defined by the limits you’ve set.
