Words have so much power. They can be so venomous too. When you look at text messages, or even just comments slung callously at you, they feel like the occasional stinging slap. Except, with words, the redness on the cheek doesn’t go away. It festers, akin to an unmoving, unblinking entity which bulges outwards. Pus oozes from the edges, irritation causing the sores to itch with an insatiable thirst until you’re clutching that cheek, and looking at the other person, and then…
Blissful silence. Catharsis, an irrevocable purging which is what you stare at, in the cool marbled lines running beneath your feet. Everything has come out. Everything which had to be said, has been said. Everything, and yet nothing. Because the things you didn’t say, the petty, insufferable comments that are still building up in the deepest, darkest parts of your cranium, are fresh. Eventually, they’ll rot. Very much like delicious fruit, these unspoken revenge blisters rot, a pungent odour emitting from them. They are waiting for the opportune moment. The opportune moment when the next argument begins, and then they have the window to emerge as nonsensical outbursts, which leave your opponent befuddled.
Why didn’t you say it last time? It’s because you were ashamed. In that unforgiving part of yourself, the part which reminisces late at night in the insufferable darkness which threatens to envelop you, shame has grown. It’s larger than life.
It is true that for the average individual, de-sensitization is a gradual process. Once you’ve heard people shout enough, once you’ve witnessed first hand enough opposing perspectives, even the most cruel of disagreements become dulled.