Silence is rarely golden

I feel to the point of physical pain, but lack the ability to express those emotions in a vocal way. Looking back on my life, I see the littered remains of those that never knew how I felt for them; how much their existence made my life worth living. And it is not because I did not want them to know, because the truth is, I had “that conversation”, the one where I told them that my world revolved around their presence, approval and love; how I cried for them when they were in pain; celebrated when they achieved; and made excuses when they did not. The problem is, ever one of those conversations occurred with only one of the two essential party's.

On more than one occasion, usually centered around the death, or the permanent departure of a non-expendable, I promised that I would change, that the next time, things would be different. But, as is always the case, I was lying to myself. I am, unfortunately, a throwback to the male culture that vilified any sign of weakness; and somehow I convinced myself, at a young age, that any sign of emotion made me less of a man. The sad truth is, that my inability to express myself is my greatest failing. My fear is that when I die, the only way people will truly know how I felt about them will be to read the words I have written here, for complete strangers to read.