a girl by any other name

i knew a girl who rarely spoke. she was bright and fascinating. had so much going for her.
i knew a girl who spoke often and loudly. she was bright and fascinating. had so much going for her.

presumably they still do, but for different reasons i don't speak to either of them anymore.

quiet girl's actions spoke loudly and she never needed to. where some quiet people could be meek and pliable, she was stoic and determined. she was not without fault, but her precision and deliberation with which she lived covered up her insecurity so well you'd need x-ray specs to see it. nobody knew the real her and i think she wanted it that way.
brash girl used speaking out as a shield against reality. she was SUCH a feminist, SUCH a radical activist that she treated men like doormats and discarded manners as if they were an antiquated formality used only by the rest of us stodgy-minded folk. she clung to radical ideas to give her a sense of self, to project the 'real' her as she thought it should be.
thinking about both of these women makes me think about language and how it affects us. sometimes i wish i spoke less and with more purpose. i would like my words to pack a heavier punch, but i speak like it's free. i've found that most quiet people i know have all their words inside. for every word they say, there are 100 they haven't said, but have thought. for people like brash girl, they speak 100 words... the same ones they're thinking. they leave no words left for the inside of them, by draining their tongues dry they hope to exhaust the real issues into submission. what i know is that when quiet girl spoke, you listened. brash girl always spoke and it became an aimless drone. quiet girl, you have something i wish i had, the ability to claim respect without claiming anything at all.
we use language to protect ourselves. both of these women have insecurities, but they dealt with them in opposite ways. one internalized while the other violently externalized. both of these habits can fuck you up. how do you know what will be the best for you in the long run? bottle up inside, or explode?
i guess ultimately we're all vulnerable kids. tough as nails on the outside, emo as shit on the inside. i think the core of us never grows older than seven or so years old. deep in the mush of the heart and beneath all the scar tissue and brick walls that the years have accumulated (some of us more than others) we still hope and dream, and want someone to love us unconditionally. we want someone to scoop us up, hold us, and tell us everything will be ok.

at least i do. shit, i ain't frontin'.

humans will never stop fascinating me. i wonder if i'll ever want to stop poking around, trying to figure out how they tick. i'm the most curious person i know.

poke poke poke, proddy prod prod.