Most of the time, he skips his turn. Though there is a desire that tugs at his heart to spill his thoughts and his woes, he keeps silent. The words float inside his head, moving forwards, backwards, forming into sentences, the words ready to come out. But he doesn’t let them go. He holds the nagging urge to speak at bay, fearing that they won’t make sense that the words come out differently than thoughts. So, instead, he resorts to listening intently, with enough optimism that he’ll learn something new instead.
Another opportunity comes to speak, he seizes it. Everything comes out so wrong. So, again, he retreats into silence and observance, taking joy in other people’s stories, and tries to learn from their art of sharing tales that hope to make everyone around feel light, happy, or sympathethic to their cause and their tale. He laughs along not to look amused or to feign being aloof, but because he truly finds what he’s listened to really funny.
How amazing it is that they can tell stories and their thoughts with enough coherence to their thoughts.
He finds a space where he can refine his thoughts and words. There he can undo his mistakes or lose his thoughts in a blink. There he finds solace, in the thought that even if no one will listen or will care, he can see that sometimes, he thinks of thoughts wonderfully and weaves words that even he thought he wasn’t capable of weaving. If anyone by chance would share the same opinion, he would be grateful in muttering his thanks. Otherwise, it’s an appreciation of how he can improve himself.
It’s a mask of sorts, that’s what writing a journal is. It’s being true and being some you are not all the time, at once. It’s being that person who is reluctant to say something when there’s something being discussed and talked about, but fearless and daring when writing it down for his own appreciation.
That’s how he feels about it, at least.