i can't talk. i actually can't.

i can’t talk.

and i know how that reads. someone is going to open this and go “arre no rahul, you talk so much, you’re nice, you’re fun, you carry the whole room.” play nice with me all you want. you don’t know.

because that’s not talking. that’s noise i’m good at.

talking is when i try to say the thing that’s actually in my head. and the second i start, my brain picks up something else and connects it to something else, and by the time i reach the end of the sentence i’m three topics away from where i started and the person in front of me has already made up their own version of what i meant.

that’s the part that kills me. not that i couldn’t say it. that they filled the gap themselves. people don’t sit in confusion. when they don’t understand you, they make it clear for themselves, quietly, in their own head, and they walk away with a rahul that isn’t me. and you can’t even correct it, because to correct it you’d have to, you know. talk.

i have so much to say. i have so much. and i don’t have the words. both at once. that’s the whole disease.

ask me tomorrow. seriously, ask me. “rahul what do you do.”

and i’ll go, “i, yes.. i, i work at founders office at inagiffy.”

and then you’ll do the normal human thing and ask, “what do you do there?“

and i’ll go, “ah yess, i too d…“

that’s it. that’s where it ends. that’s the whole answer. i run someone’s founders office and i cannot finish a sentence about it.

and look at this. look at what i’m doing right now. i’m sitting here typing a blog about not being able to speak, and even in my own thoughts, in my own head, alone, with nobody watching, no follow up question, no face to read, i still can’t find it. i can’t even think the sentence. i’m just typing around it in circles hoping it forms.

that’s so fucking sad, bro. that’s genuinely so sad.

so here’s my list.

talking is hard. having a conversation is hard. finding your way into a conversation is hard. structuring one so it goes somewhere is hard. saying a thing without making the other person feel small is hard. making someone feel good when you actually don’t give a fuck is hard.

except that last one. that one’s easy. that one’s easy for everyone, because you’re faking it, and faking has no words to lose. nothing is at stake so nothing gets stuck.

and if talking is easy for you, then be honest, it’s because of who you’re talking to. someone who gets it. someone who fills in the rest correctly. that’s not skill, that’s luck. i just haven’t had that luck often enough to build the muscle.

fuck everyone. i don’t mean that. i kind of mean that.

and this blog. this is the only place i run to. it’s the only room where nobody interrupts, nobody’s face changes halfway, nobody asks the follow up before i’ve finished the first thing. i get to be slow here. i’m slow. i’ve always been slow. the world just never gave me the extra four seconds.

so what is it then.

is it that i’ve had too few real conversations in my life, the kind where someone waits, and this is what that does to a person over ten years? or did i just never try? never care enough to learn it, never practised it like i practised everything else?

because it matters. it matters so much. i built a whole thing on writing and i can’t order the words out loud.

i’m not lonely writing this. i want to be clear about that. i have people. i’m not sitting here in the dark being tragic.

i just can’t reach them. there’s a full version of me in here and only about eleven percent of it ever makes it out of my mouth, and everyone i love is out there loving the eleven percent.

anyway. i’m in the middle of work. background is loud. i’m fine.

good night.