Friday, November 6, 2009


In this late autumn night these words ring particularly true to me. Articulation of thoughts and feelings is not something I'm often very good at. To give ourselves in words is a messy business and one that is sometimes just easier to avoid.

So much of what we live goes on inside–
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
Of unacknowledged love are no less real
For having passed unsaid. What we conceal
Is always more than what we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead.
Dana Gioia, "Unsaid" from Interrogations at Noon.


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