I fear that I talk too much. I do this mostly when I'm nervous, anxious, or otherwise stressed, but anymore, it has practically become the norm. It's as though I'm frantic to be heard--to be understood. But, then I panic with the sudden realization that I'd far rather not be fully understood. I'd far rather cherish my secrets and magic than have them vulgarly laid open before the gaze of all.
A wise person speaks but little, and does not feel so intensely the need to be understood, if indeed at all. I know I am far from wise, and forgive myself for it, and yet, I wish to be wise.
Sin is but missing the mark. I am, at once, not as I should be, and yet everything I am able to be at this time. One day, I shall know better, and shall not strive so any longer. One day, I shall know balance.
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