This takes root from a kind of pain I’m ashamed of. You have your armour of words, shielding yourself against my silence. Silence. I can offer no more. All this while, a dense monologue courses through my veins, and I am only dimly aware of what I should be saying. I have a knack of leaving many things unsaid. Once upon a time that was just alright. Who else was there to judge and to theorize and put me neatly into a bracket of good or bad behaviour? I could deal with being upset with myself, sleep over it, and start afresh. The previous night would fade. Silence then meant speculation and listening to others. It was nice and comforting too. Right now, thanks to you, I am deeply ashamed of it. Conscious of the fact, that I cannot speak my mind. Conscious that this state of being quiet jars with your voice streaming in through the phone. That I cannot fight tooth and nail. That you in your verbose manner could go on, from being cheerful to being down, reflecting it all through your words. I keep mum. I don’t tell you. I tell no one, for that matter. Spoilt brat me. Can’t speak her mind me. Dumb me. Stupid me. Pathetic me. Why do I not disconnect the phone today? What difference does it make tonight? Would it really make sense to you if I say something like-my anger is intensely private, and so is my grief? Would you appreciate the fact that I do not bawl my lungs out because I cannot be like countless others? But that is not really the point. The point is that suddenly I can no longer relate to terms that I have always acquainted myself with. Responsible, understanding and logical to a certain extent. To you perhaps I revealed the wrong side of the dreamer. And tonight I realize that I have nothing in common with who I was just a few months back. I am lost. I can’t seem to make sense of my own logical constructs. I can’t seem to tell you that I am not angry that you attended a friend’s birthday, but I am ashamed that I can’t do a few tasks on my own without your promised presence by my side. I am crippled and I won't do anything about it. I am a crybaby, a monstrous clingy old nag, and silent. Wish I could learn to swear with élan. I’d be Caliban! What more can you expect from a once self assured being who is now reduced to an immature selfish idiot? I don’t know how many have felt the sharp sting so deep inside that it hurts to even moan. So I survive, listening to the omnipresent old brag of my heart, I am I am I am, and like a fickle child given to tantrums, I pick up the phone every few minutes and keep hoping against hope, that perhaps this once I shall be calm. Perhaps this once, my nerves won’t give up. And see, what a cripple I am, begging for pity on a bloody blog! This is the worst bout of identity crisis ever. Muttering hello and goodbye a thousand times over within five minutes. But just for once, for once, I’d like that old confidence back. The self assurance I never thought I had until I lost it. This is like seeing your insides cleave into perfect halves. Aren’t people supposed to get what you mean just like that? Isn’t understanding all about that gut feeling? Then why does it make me so miserable?