As we wade across the water

How is it that I always find it so hard to talk with you; that even when I am most robust in spirit and wise in words, I can find nothing to interest your attention, nothing to humour you as the others do so easily. You turn away and I turn to look at the ground. Even in my dreams, whenever you are in them, I can be right next to you, and we could both be laughing heartily at some funny thing which is blurred by the thick atmosphere of dreams; but as soon as that peters out, I find that I have nothing to left to say. And then, there develops a cold air between us, nothing awfully disquieting, just uncomfortable, that forces us to want to move away from each other and search out other more agreeing partners. Is there some divine force that keeps me from you? Has it erected proximity barrier, which if I step into, I lose every bit persona that I naturally possess, and I become but a timid little child, enamoured of a greater person? With you, I am always silent.


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