Somewhere between speaking too much and saying nothing at all, human relationships become complicated.
Someone becomes a parent to you not because you chose them. You become a friend not because you planned it, but because repeated moments slowly stitched a bond. Even spouses are not purely based on your selection alone and without having been influenced by circumstances.
Yet once a relationship exists, it must be managed—carefully, consciously, constantly.
That’s where the trouble begins.
I once noticed that some friends called me more often than I called them. When I paused to reflect, I realised the imbalance wasn’t intentional, but it was real. And real imbalances, even unspoken ones, quietly accumulate weight. There is a guilt that comes from not reciprocating equally, and a discomfort in acknowledging it.
Human relationships are complicated largely because human communication is complicated. We rely heavily on language—spoken and written words—to convey meaning. Words must be chosen carefully, especially in sensitive situations. One misplaced phrase, one loosely framed sentence, can undo years of warmth. Sometimes the message lands differently from how it was intended, and repairing that gap takes far more effort than creating it did.
Ironically, animals communicate far more cleanly.
I watch animal-based programs often, and I’m struck by how clearly animals express fear, affection, warning, or need—mostly through body language or facial expression. It is rarely misunderstood. Even our pet dog at home communicates effortlessly what it wants or how it feels. There is no ambiguity. No second-guessing. No emotional residue.
Humans, on the other hand, have made language our default tool of connection. Language is an acquired skill, layered with culture, ego, memory, and expectation. While it gives us immense power, it also introduces distortion. Words can conceal as much as they reveal.
Silence, too, becomes dangerous.
There were times in my life when I believed silence itself was harmful—that not speaking was neglect. Sitting together without conversation felt like something was wrong. I assumed responsibility for filling the gap, for initiating dialogue, for keeping the relationship alive through words. The pressure to “manage” the relationship was constant.
But silence doesn’t always kill relationships. Misinterpretation does.
Like everything else, we may have taken our ability to speak and write too far. In doing so, we’ve made relationships heavier than they need to be—burdened by expectations, explanations, and assumptions.
Accomplished yogis or saints communicate without language at all—thought to thought, presence to presence. No words. No misunderstandings. No emotional debris. Just clarity.
Perhaps relationships were never meant to be managed so much—only lived.
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