just stop talking…

just stop talking
it was a thought that had
two minutes in the sun
i can’t breathe
around you here
it’s only just begun

just stop talking
not sure you know
love didn’t die today
how many words
do you need
to not know what to say

just stop talking
it doesn’t change
your fear or where I am
I can’t be
the only one
who has to understand

just stop talking
you edit down
the heart, the joy
the pain
hold your silence or be here
there’s nothing to explain


I looked up in the sky and was nearly blinded, for the sun was still straight above my head; I had come, it seemed, into that country where the day never passes. Yet at last, though the terrible light seemed to bore through my eyeballs into my brain, I saw something – black against blue, but far to small for a cloud. Then by its circlings, I knew it to be a bird….It lighted on the sand and looked at me. Its face was a little like the old Priest’s but it was not he; it was divine creature.
“Woman,” it said, “who are you?”
“Orual, Queen of Glome,” said I.
“Then it is not you that I was sent to help. What is that roll you carry in your hands?
“It is my complaint against the gods,” said I.
The eagle clapped his wings and lifted his head and cried out with a loud voice, “She’s come at last. Here is the woman who has a complaint against the gods.”
“Come into court. Your case is to be heard.”
“Read your complaint,” said the judge.
I looked at the roll in my hand and saw at once that it was not the book I had written. It couldn’t be; it was far too small. And too old – a little, shabby, crumpled thing, nothing like my great book that I had worked on all day, day after day….I thought I would fling it down and trample on it. I’d tell them someone had stolen my complaint and slipped this thing into my hand instead. Yet I found myself unrolling it…..A great terror and loathing came over me. I said to myself, “Whatever they do to me, I will never read out this stuff. Give me back my Book.” But I already heard myself reading it….
And the voice that I read it in was strange to my ears. There was given to me a certainty that this, at last, was my real voice.
There was silence in the dark assembly long enough for me to have read my book out yet again. At last the judge spoke.
“Are you answered?” he said.
“Yes,” said I.
The complaint was the answer. To have heard myself making it was to be answered.
When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the soul for years, which you have, all that time, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you’ll not talk about the joy of words. I saw very well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?
– Lewis, C.S. Till We Have Faces. Great Britain: C.S. Lewis Pte, 1956. Print.

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