I can feel the pressure of your thoughts all the way over here. You say you cannot talk about it, and yet a roar pushes at the air between us, begging sound to give it flight. I search frantically for clues to which thoughts could possibly want to be suppressed with such force. I find nothing. Again.
The days pass, the pressure rises and the air grows thick with frustrated silent roars that have now begat silent rage. There is no space inside or outside to escape the constant whoosh of all this impending damnation circling my waiting ears. I know without doubt all the kindness and compassion in my being will never be enough to defuse such well-pressurized resentment. And I accept it is not my job to do so.
So this is it, then. I love me, you love you, and silence everywhere deserves joyful noise.