Blah, Blah, Blah
It’s amazing how people like to talk about themselves. They’ll let you guide the conversation, asking polite questions, without ever bothering to u-turn. Model shells of emptiness. The ingredients they take are pulled from the inside of their mouths, instead of the vibrancy around them.
Blah, Blah, Blah.
I wonder if they know how like drones they sound? Annoying in their complacency for others. Limited in their curiosity, other than to seek your reaction. Eventually the flesh that is their lips, glistening in saliva, must stop. Right?
Blah, Blah, Blah.
Silence. A heavenly break in the clouds that is their thoughts. But relief will not be given. Oh no. You wait — for what seems like an eternity stretching into the void. Your hope dies with every passing tick. They won’t ask you who. Or when, or why, or how. They won’t ask you what. Their minds just keep churning…
Blah, Blah, Blah.
If you don’t break the circle, your spit will carry words. Unless you wrench your heart from the leech, your mind will try to respond. It will retaliate. The gears will circle, and it will begin again. You will feel you must be heard. Just like them. It’s their time to listen to you. That it’s your turn for…
Blah, Blah, Blah.
