The art of not talking,
when mastered,
is something comparable to the art of an absolute communicator
– a craft performed by a person so versed in the secrets of the trade of extracting and deploying information intentionally
without ever giving away even the slightest hint of the underlying fact that
the act,
the process that
the other person
has willingly joined in an attempt to communicate
(under the assumption that
taking part and doing this is product of their own free will
and accord)
is being designed,
planned
and controlled
and that each of its stages is invisibly orchestrated and conducted
by
the
communicator-manipulator masterette of puppets,
always playing her game of
one-sided de-verbalized chess
with (her)self and/or
anyone/everyone else,
and that whatever is said or done or uttered or hinted
or not spoken
is
something she had
thought about,
run the scenario
and
adjusted her next move
and several more to follow
so that the final outcome remains
the same and unchanged
– her not talking,
aware that
the other person
will be leaving the board
feeling unjustly that
the breakdown
the silence
the failiure to make her speak
it is somehow their fault.
Sometimes the automated safe mode of not talking is there to guard a secret new and dangerous dent in her armor
– she is working on cleaning out the basements of her soul and exorcising the clutter demons of her past emotions.
Sometimes the not talking is her way of searching
- for the comfort of her silence that got lost.
Sometimes the playing of the not talking game is what matters to her the most, and the fact that it is zero sum doesn’t count
-because both sides of her need to experience loss before she moves on.
Sometimes she just lets herself not talk at all.
Like for days now.
when mastered,
is something comparable to the art of an absolute communicator
– a craft performed by a person so versed in the secrets of the trade of extracting and deploying information intentionally
without ever giving away even the slightest hint of the underlying fact that
the act,
the process that
the other person
has willingly joined in an attempt to communicate
(under the assumption that
taking part and doing this is product of their own free will
and accord)
is being designed,
planned
and controlled
and that each of its stages is invisibly orchestrated and conducted
by
the
communicator-manipulator masterette of puppets,
always playing her game of
one-sided de-verbalized chess
with (her)self and/or
anyone/everyone else,
and that whatever is said or done or uttered or hinted
or not spoken
is
something she had
thought about,
run the scenario
and
adjusted her next move
and several more to follow
so that the final outcome remains
the same and unchanged
– her not talking,
aware that
the other person
will be leaving the board
feeling unjustly that
the breakdown
the silence
the failiure to make her speak
it is somehow their fault.
Sometimes the automated safe mode of not talking is there to guard a secret new and dangerous dent in her armor
– she is working on cleaning out the basements of her soul and exorcising the clutter demons of her past emotions.
Sometimes the not talking is her way of searching
- for the comfort of her silence that got lost.
Sometimes the playing of the not talking game is what matters to her the most, and the fact that it is zero sum doesn’t count
-because both sides of her need to experience loss before she moves on.
Sometimes she just lets herself not talk at all.
Like for days now.
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