"Deeds, not words."
Whoever said it expressed it in such a concise manner that I cannot fathom the origins of the perspective. All I can is guess.
Guess, and guess that my feelings now are different, and occasion a different use of language to express.
Actions.
It seems impossible to dismiss actions, for actions are that which actually validates words. Words may be beautifully crafted, and in fact, insincere.
Actions seem to truly be a window to one's mind, soul, heart.
And yet actions can be controlled too. For one who's false, actions are but another medium.
And actions without words stay like a half explained notion- intriguing at best, ambiguous at worst.
Words.
I have a very strange relationship with words. Language, tone and connotations- one whereby I become oversensitive, yet fail myself to bring about the full extent of the idea I seek to express.
How can words be dismissed? If we were to scrutinise, the word choice itself speaks volumes of the person's intent, emotions and thoughts.
In the end, isn't it those thoughts, emotions, intents... That we count on? Be it from actions or words, the basis of our understanding of the world surrounding comes from the emotions demonstrated, the intent vocalised.
The music plays. Curiously, it helps me hear my mind better... When my heart is otherwise engaged by the emotions roaring in my ears.
Sometimes I can't get a grasp on the actions and words surrounding me, nor my own thoughts.
It's those times that I don't know if anything I thought I knew were true at all.
It's those times that I don't know how to get a grip- everything I touch seems to disappear into the intangible, everything I build my person around seems to flicker.
And it's not in me to bulldoze around, trying to figure out what is real, what is imaginary.
I take them all as imaginary.
I learn to dismiss my expectations as they form, denounce it as unreasonable, silly, too much.
No one is obligated to speak the truth to me, behave sincerely to me. To hope is one thing, and to expect it is a whole different thing on its own.
Because I'm not sure if I have a right to complain either way.
Who am I to?
Who am I to, when sometimes my lack of an comprehensive response hides my deeper reactions?
Who am I to, when sometimes sentence structure is corrected deliberately to weave another understanding into the words- hiding the emotions I actually want to say?
Who am I to, when I myself fail to be frank, direct, simple to understand?
Who am I to expect anything, when I refrain from voicing so much that I feel myself- deliberately, to hide them?
Who am I to expect anything, when it's either that or a strangely confrontational conversation when it hits something dear?
Who am I anyway? I don't know myself.
I don't even know what lies underneath all these coverings, laid on the premise of avoiding conflict.
By avoiding conflict, I think I've avoided many more, valuable things.
Funny thing is, I doubt I'll change regardless.