Sometimes I am quiet

I can talk a lot. I can fill up a room with stories and anecdotes. I can chat for hours on topics that range far and wide, sometimes knowledgeably, sometimes not. But there are also times when I am quiet.

Sometimes it is because I am sick, and I am using all the energy and resources I have simply to function which leaves nothing left over for witty banter or engaged facial reactions. More often than not I am simply choosing observation over participation. I am watching the world around me, I am watching you interact. Like an alien studying human behavior in order to learn how to assimilate. Like a basketball player studying plays. I am learning, I am watching.

I am also most likely not angry with you. Trust me, you will know when my quiet means anger. I will use my words sparingly and wield them like a professional ninja with throwing stars. I will whip them at you so fast and deadly that you won't even know I have severed a limb until I am long gone and the bleeding can't be stopped. This is a gift my father has given me. The way that I fight, and I try not to use it very often as I get older. The worst part is the gift works best with those I love and know.

Often the room does not even notice my quiet. You are so loud around me that my silence does not register. I prefer when this happens. Then the probing questions of my health and thoughts are left unasked. It's easier this way since I won't answer them anyway.

I enjoy quiet. I enjoy my solitude. It does not mean that I am not having a good time. It does not mean that I want the world to go away. It is the same way I love to sit on the edge of a game, watching but not playing. I don't expect you to understand, and I can not explain it any better than this. All I ask is that you please not try and take it away.