The Quiet One

He wants to communicate. He wants to be the sort of person who makes a simple statement that sums up all feelings with cutting precision. He wants to be that conversationalist who never has to repeat a trivial point because nobody understands it due to its correct grammar and sophisticated lexis. He wants to never have to explain himself twice, three times, four times, just to keep the conversation going.

And she longs to sit at her little wooden desk and let the poetry and lyrics swirling inside her head naturally transform from being jumbled, adolescent thoughts to neat, petite verses upon the pages of her leather-bound notebook. It was a birthday present from a friend, and someday she will use it to prove that she is who she has always longed to be - that person who is just understood, no questions asked; that person who can articulate every emotion without hesitance.

They both crave the ability to look their teachers in the eye when they converse, to just be the confident one for a change. They yearn to be rid of the chains of their age that tie them down, dampening any opinions formed and barring their freedom of speech. They lust after somebody to come along who can say the things that they can never bring themselves to say anywhere but inside their own heads, somebody who is literally everything they appear to be.

He aches to be a storyteller, taking you on a journey of emotion and drawing you to a fairly nonsensical yet oddly uplifting ending. She wishes she could lay all her thoughts out for the world to see - no embarrassment, no apologies. He probably does too, his eyes speak the words he can never say, they speak of oppression and persecution.

And, really, these are their thoughts, bare, sitting on this page with fragility and vulnerability, silently seeking the affirmation they need. And I am the words they can never quite bring to mind. I represent people all over this world, people who are afraid to say what they mean. I have been here for millennia. I am humble, simple and stative. I know I have been served well, but inside I am begging for a change - begging to see these people I have come to know so well be different, be daring. I long for a new, exciting vocabulary, one that speaks of issues and bucks the stereotypes that have held us all back for so long. I desire an optimistic outlook to be forced upon me with which I can apply the vocabulary I feel I have earnt over time. But, I know them all too well. I will be spoken from the mouths of him and her, from the mouths of everybody all over this diminutive planet. I know the world will continue changing for centuries to come, but alas, I know I will remain the same.