He read the passage once again as he came to it in story’s page:
“She paused. She was making two discoveries. One was that you didn’t have to talk in complete sentences. People didn’t seem to need more than a word or two to make their own sense of what you said. The other discovery was that she could talk as long as she asked questions. Making a statement was risky.”[i]
He felt then a meekness and sense of foolishness in self as those who dare often do, risk’s cost paid and sensed before, if ever, reward.
He felt a fool and, in the sense, he feared a conversation brought to end before begin.
He’d made a statement—in complete, full sentence at that—and he felt a dread and sadness where, before, a levity had been.
Sky held clouds and he wondered if day was truly as dreary as it seemed or if its gray and overcast was in blight of mind and eye. He’d spoke a hope, one he believed was good, and the silence made him sad.
He could have continued, infinite and endless in circle-cycle of his mind—story, dream, and fantasy of what, without act, would never be.
And so he spoke, breaking spell of repetition pretended magic.
Sky was gray, and the rain was cold. He wanted to be alone, and was, and told himself that he was fine. But both were lies, and he knew by the way he didn’t feel better.
He could have kept in the vagueness, whimsical mystery of open-end; but such, in time, dispirits too when what one truly wants is depth: not of a weighted, heavy kind, but one where you share of self and learn of another what is not open-seen on surface but shared with those, closer to, whom we wish to know and view.
He felt a sadness, a cold in the world, but maybe it was only front and, behind, a greater warmth and shine prepared.
[i] Walker Percy, The Second Coming.