I don’t speak just to fill up empty spaces. My words are not brittle drywall or cement capable of being worn apart by unwelcome intruders. My words are not temporary, so why should I treat them as such?
I wonder how many hours of our lives we spend making small talk. How much time has been wasted on the condition of the weather, as it literally speaks for itself in front of our faces. How much energy has been spent pretending that we are miserably tired and burdened with extremely busy schedules? We are busy enough to make small talk though.
Why do we like to fill in empty spaces? Why are we so afraid of silence? What is so terrifying about letting the air around us speak? The air that gives us our life, our power, and ironically, our own voices.