Utterance

“I don’t like it.”

Four simple words. Nothing complicated about them whatsoever, with the possible exception of the apostrophe on the second word. They were just there, swirling around in my head, as though waiting for me to swoop in with a net and throw them out of my mouth.

It seems we do a lot of that – waiting. As the words waited impatiently for me to pick them up, I waited too: for the right moment, for my anger to subside, or perhaps, for it grow to a point beyond control, so I would have an excuse to say those words. Waiting was the means to my end – what that end would be, I wasn’t sure. Whether, like on the stroke of midnight of August 15, 1947, my words would find utterance; or whether they would fade away to silence and grudgingly trudge towards the enormous pile of forcefully discarded thoughts.

I hoped for the former, but hope, when mingled with waiting, can be a dangerous combination. The determination is there, the resolution set, the anger surging. Yet the trigger remains just out of reach, as I sit around, waiting, hoping for the opportune moment to come along.

The scene has already played out a gazillion times in my head. For all the silence that envelopes me from the outside, my inner mind is seeing the satisfaction of an eloquent and persuasive monologue, one that Shakespeare would be proud of. I know exactly what to say, and effortlessly express my anger, my hurt, my disappointment, while a wave of understanding washes over the other person. All our misunderstandings are forgotten as my words drive the point home, and the ending, as Disney so eloquently puts it – is a happily ever after. All thanks to me and my words.

But while we applaud Shakespeare for giving us words that manage to grasp the complex emotions of misunderstanding, we forget something quite obvious – he wasn’t the actor. He wasn’t the performer. He wasn’t the one standing on stage, with hundreds of eyes upon him, waiting expectantly for him to say those words. No, there were others to do that task. His job was writing, and that’s what he did. He was lucky there were people around him willing to say those words aloud for him in his plays; just like the one taking place in my head, the one that had ace performers and cheering audiences.

Reality, of course, is that other stage, the one set outside my head, where I play the role of a mute, unable to express the feelings that are now becoming too painful to restrain. And so I close my eyes, willing myself to calm down, when the truth is that I want nothing more than to let go and let it all out.

As always, silence wins the round. Reluctantly, I assure myself that the next time, my words will find their utterance.