Don't box me in...

I think more nuanced than I speak
Words are often hard to come by
Words that convey the nuance

So instead of finding the words
Or admitting I can't find them
I bypass or short cut
And words come out that don't authentically convey
What I think or feel

Is it because of fear?
Fear of how the other will judge me?
Perhaps as being too ambivalent?
Too milquetoast?

Or is it because of the other's labels of me?
Of the box they put me in?
Due to the human trait of projection?
Due to assumptions made on those projections?
Due to lenses through which the other views and interprets?
Do I not care enough to correct the assumption?
Is the energy expenditure to yet once again explain myself to draining?

Am I projecting in this "other" analysis?

Or does it mostly boil down to symptoms of my disability?
The physical and cognitive and emotional toll?
To carry out what should be simple functions?
Due to nerve damage?
Due to long-term steroid side effects?

Perhaps I don't speak up and explain
Because it takes more words to convey gray
Between and within the gray is where the nuance exists
Like the silver streaks within the hoary head
When the wind blows, the hair rearranges, exposing the shades
Or depending on the angle at which the sunlight shines, tones differ slightly
And may even display colors other than silver, white, and gray
It takes more words, more thought, more feeling
To convey nuance

My favorite conversations, the few I engage, are not about
politics or relationships or analysis or philosophy or academia
My favorite conversations are about peoples' stories
Listening to what an individual has lived
Without trying to analyze or judge or appraise
Analyzing, appraising, judging the other
Tires my soul

Sometimes
Often
I am the other