Everything I think I’ve said is followed by a period of dead air. Dead air for an instant, dead air for an interminable instant, dead air never ending. I can never be sure until I have a response, a reaction of any kind, that I’ve said anything at all. The constancy of this period ensures that I am never at ease until you have laughed, cried, thrown a punch, fought back.
This air between every us tells me that I am not real, not really here, not in this with you. I can live with that before I can live with what I am when you know I am here, and so I stay silent, still. I work to never scream, never force you to say that I am here, I am heard, I am here.