Seldom Speaking
On the loud, isolated, contradictory present — and the small refusal of it.
A harder one. About the noise we’re swimming in and the fact that almost none of it qualifies as actual conversation.
We’re connected
But never present
We’re always affected
But often complacent
It feels like being sad
after sex
As if relief comes only
from death
For there are sinners
saving lives
And saints who are selfish
and unkind
What is this world?
It feels upside down
What is this place
I once called home?
Everyone is yelling —
seldom speaking
And no one dares to sit
and listen
With pride, everyone says
they’re angry
But I don’t think they
even know why
The hardest version of the truth right now: most people aren’t actually angry about the thing they’re loud about. The thing they’re loud about is just a vehicle for the underlying ache. The poem doesn’t try to fix it — it just names what most of us suspect on the quiet days.
— JTC