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OtterSummer 8.39-Unspokens

I imagine I’m accumulating unspokens like tokens , the way Scrooge McDuck hoarded gold, one eye wary of the Beagle Boys, ever richer as I grow old. My unspokens are a form of currency with no market for exchange. They line my life like pocket lint, so much spare change.

Nobody offers a nickel for my thoughts and who would pay a dime? I mumble to myself and recognize some brilliance, but not the same as someone else might. So I’m mute by all appearances, deaf, too, and blind; no moments of truth can ever break through without another on the line.

She doesn’t want to talk about it, which means she maybe can’t afford to hear. With so much invested in her view of the world, losing that feels too dear. I’d gladly make up any difference if my unspokens could cover that spread, but some stuff just seems to resist other meanings, no matter how caringly it’s said.

I was hoping we’d talk while walking somewhere, the route and the target wouldn’t matter. I’d make something up as an excuse to get out, then just hope the momentum might chatter. But the interest you showed when I proposed it seemed to have faded away since, I tried to incite without respite, and there the impasse sits.

I imagine I’m collecting unspokens, like tokens. Am I any richer as I’m growing old?

©2013 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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