Thinking has a quiet skin.
But I feel the break and fled of things inside it,
Blue hills most gentle in calm light, then stretches of assail
And ransack. Such tangles of charred wreckage, shrapnel-bits
Singling and singeing where they fall. I feel the stumbling gait of what I am,
The quiet uproar of undone, how to be hidden is a tempting, violent thing—
Each thought breaking always in another,
All the unlawful elsewheres rushing in.
This feels like an introvert poem, and as an introvert, I kind of identify with it. On the outside, I'm quiet, reserved, thoughtful, calm. On the inside, I can be quaking with fear, intensely angry or irritated, absorbed in observing others, or joyful. But quiet on the outside.
I sometimes wish I were more extraverted; able to express right then what I'm thinking or feeling. It takes time, though. Rarely can I immediately even identify what I'm feeling, or my opinion about something. I need reflection and quietness to sort out how I feel from the tumult of narrative and emotion that runs through my mind. The quiet uproar.
It is tempting to remain hidden. I'm trying to live out loud a little more, speak my mind when I know it, say what I think (when I figure that out). It's scary, but good. I want to be seen -- but only on my terms. Not raw. Not by just anyone.
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