Recently I've been trying to refrain from saying things. Call it a New Year's Resolution, if you will, though I started before New Year. Sometimes I've tried to keep quiet because I've believed it'd be better -- that conflict could be avoided, for example; sometimes I've tried to keep quiet just to see if I can -- as an exercise in self-control. If I don't need to say something, perhaps I'd be better saying nothing.
I've managed to resist saying a couple of moderately important things -- important to me, at any rate, in an emotional context -- and I've managed to resist saying lots of trivial things. I think resisting saying the important things helped, in a way; in at least one case I think it probably avoided some unpleasantness, though of course I don't know that the unpleasantness isn't still happening outside my earshot. The problem is, I don't seem to be quite able to resist saying that I haven't said things, if you see what I mean. Endless deferral.
In the last five months or so I've also been going places on my own a lot more than usual; this means I've been walking places without talking. This is unusual for me. Sometimes, if I've been walking around town on my own for a while, I find it's hard to start speaking again when I get back into human company. I can't think of anything for which it's worth breaking the silence. Or rather, I can think of a dozen equally-worthwhile things, and I end up saying none of them.
Sometimes, in the past, I've found that when I'm really badly depressed I feel as though my conversation-making circuits have been switched off. I think of things, and imagine saying them, and rehearse entire conversations in my head, but nothing actually passes my lips. People are probably already sniggering at the back of the virtual classroom now at the idea of me, the original motormouth, being unable to talk. But it's true. It happens. And usually it's a sign that things are Very Wrong.
No, I don't know where this is going, either.
Words, words, words.