Muted

All of my responses are muted, held back from full expression. Nothing is as I truly intend, the words are memories of a moment, my actions as refined by the expectations of others.

Nothing is cutting edge, as there are no edges upon which to cut. All things are rounded off. Safetied for consumption. Made for all. Dumbed down, really. And what for? Because, [it must be] that [which] is not objectionable - safe, really.

I have forgotten to live beyond the bounds of safety, or, perhaps, I've never known how. The capacity is there, but, how to get it across has always been the problem.

I, predictably, yet subtly, have assumed that the reverse must also be considered. That the thoughts, emotions, [and] motives of others are constantly veiled in their discourse, body language, and histories. Knowing a person, talking to him/her, and listening above all else - remembering - can tell you the truth. And yet, for all our intelligence, it remains impossible to convey truth.

The essence of experience cannot be told. It can be only what it is.