unwritable things

I'm thinking about people who don't write. I wonder what it's like to feel emotion without having to put it into words. How does it work? Where does it go?

When writers fall in love, they keep it all. Pages and pages of sprawling metaphors bleed out: letters and poems and secret confessions, things for the world and things for no one else. It's as though by capturing the sparks on paper, we imagine that they will always remain the same.

But what about the others? Those people who don't write -- what do they do when they fall in love? If they don't try to cage their feelings behind black and white bars, do they send them out in the world? Do they give them away? Do they live them? And does that make them better people?

If you have answers, tell me.

Show me.