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Ears take in sounds that he doesn’t want to hear, or he’s tired of hearing … so he shuts down. He’s there in the room, but his expression like a canvas yet to be graced by the colored stroke of a brush. Each word like a sword, poking, prodding and piercing deeply within, yet his lips remain sealed … almost curled as if he’s fighting the urge to fire back. He feels just as they do, he bleeds just the same but he’s trying to display a grace and peace … to remain calm amongst a verbal storm. An internalization of feelings and a suppression of words join hands and stir an evil concoction, the devils playground … as the verbal barrage persists, and you can see the urge to retort build as the lines of a clenched jaw peer through his cheeks. There’s a fire in his eyes, as he squints and glares at his opponent. His hands clasped together, almost to prevent the ability to reach out and touch someone. His shoulders held back to create an illusion of strength, but he’s weak … and crumbling before this bombardment. His emotions have him wound tight; he wants to respond but fears only a reactionary explosion that does more harm than good. Stress exits from his feet, draws lines on his forehead and a wave of heat swells throughout the body. Right, wrong or indifferent, he yearns to remain composed. The ability to avoid confrontation a loss, for he is at war, not with the source of words but with himself … fearing the man that once was, would appear again. Silence may never be the answer, but perhaps only a lesser of two evils.
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