exploder.

I blame it in part on the close relationship I had with my brother, Carl, when I was growing up. We were inseparable, close, connected, bonded. We had all the same friends for the first 17 years of my life. I felt that life was meant to be experienced with someone. I grew accustomed to the comfortability of recapping daily details and speaking aloud whatever happened to be on my mind. I like to think of this sort of connection between siblings as rare. I think it really might be. Carl was my very first and very dearest friend.

I guess all of this, this sort of openness and sharing in lives, still equals love to me. I guess I think that's fine, except for I can't quite seem to reconcile the fact that for most people, I talk too much. I keep hoping that somehow I'll change. I keep wishing for some paradigm shift to wash over me that will leave me contentedly and quietly within my own head. But other times, I feel it's an innate desire, an integral component of who I am and that I may just have to search out more people who are okay and even welcoming of it.

These days, when Carl visits with his wife and son, I get excited. I speak voraciously and he welcomes it and accepts it and enthusiastically responds. It feels wonderful.