We Don’t Have To Say Anything

We don’t have to say anything. Seriously. Halves of ideas float in our heads like broken DNA sequences, and we spend 70% of our time testing different combinations. Typing, even if we’re just typing in our heads. If there were real-world typing indicators, we’d walk around with ellipses in front of our mouths.

We don’t have to say anything. Saying it changes the thing, like how blood is supposed to be blue but looks red in the world. “What I made is blue,” God says over lattes at La Colombe Torrefaction, nervously tapping a finger on the smooth wooden table. You nod sympathetically, like, “Oh God, here we go again.”

We don’t have to say anything. It’s boring, what we say, we both know it’s boring, we both know everything we’ve said is a Battleship coordinate on the top side of the board, the ghost side, the side where you track the location of your opponent’s boats. We keep saying little plastic pegs at each other. It’s “fun” enough to keep us from stopping.

We don’t have to say anything. We’ve built lives on piles of LOLs. Bought apartments and filled them with texts. Sometimes I can’t see our relationship through the bubbles. Where are you?

We don’t have to say anything. I know you think this is my way of saying you don’t have to say anything, emphasis on you. A passive aggressive way to say the things you’re saying are overpowering the things I’m saying, take them back. But no, I really mean we.

We don’t have to say anything. Whoever invented language has been selling it to us from the dead for years so we could just… not.

We don’t have to say anything. Imagine your mouth is a sculpture on a beach in Morocco. Imagine my mouth is a weird, silent bug. What happens next?

We don’t have to say anything. It could be your birthday or my death or my grandparents’ cryogenic reincarnation or the cosmic reenactment of the Big Bang and we could Just. Say. Nothing. Let the moments ricochet. Get out of the way.

We don’t have to say anything. Let’s build a silence in the middle of this table. A big, expensive silence. One of those silences they’ll put up for auction at Sotheby’s when we’re dead.

We don’t have to say anything. We can pull the shiny vibrating parts out of our throats, hold them tightly between our fingers and throw them on the floor or put them in the freezer.

We don’t have to say anything. Burn our color-coded conversation starters, stop making faces in the mirror before we go out, don’t try so hard. No one said we had to do it like this.

We don’t have to say anything. Go to a party and stare into the soup until a white triangle appears: Reply hazy try again. Language has been punking us from day one, and if you pay attention it’s been punking everyone else, too.

I mean. We don’t have to say anything.