Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing, no, not for a king, Upon whose property and most dear life A damned defeat was made.

Silence can be a hard habit to break.
There are places and times and rooms in which it is my tendency to say nothing or very little and when I return to those places, once again I find a stream of not much emerge from my mouth. And I, like Hamlet here, can berate myself for the headache that emerges from clenching my jaw, my door to speech. Then the headache gets worse. I would say that the locking of the jaw is a result of holding back words but it’s more like it holds back the thought of words, it’s a silencing so deep I don’t even know what I would say if asked to speak.


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