Too Fast to Listen, Too Slow to Tell

Shakespeare was not wrong when he sketched the “seven ages of man.” The image of the “lean and slippered pantaloon” with spectacles on nose and a world grown deaf to his words feels uncomfortably close these days. I catch myself wanting to “tell the tale”—a story from long ago that still burns in my memory, one bought with blood, sweat, tears, and sometimes humiliation. In my mind, these stories are not entertainment but warnings, lanterns on a trail, hard-earned lessons I would spare another if I could.

But the world has sped past the storyteller. Young men and women live in a torrent of content, voices, and noise. A story, even a short one, can feel to them like an intrusion on already fractured attention. I can feel their eyes glaze as I begin, and I ask myself: is the fault mine, for not knowing how to speak in their dialect of brevity, or is it theirs, for not knowing how to listen?

There is a tension here. I don’t want to be the tedious sage who drones on about “back in my day.” Nor do I want to keep my mouth shut when experience has carved out truths in me that could save someone else years of heartache. How do you honor the past without becoming a bore? How do you steward the wisdom of scars without pressing it where it is unwanted?

Sometimes I think the balance is not to insist on being heard, but to wait for the question. The younger generation often doesn’t need a lecture, but they may someday need a companion who has been through the fire and lived. A story offered at the right moment—short, sharp, and humble—may go further than a library of long recollections.

So I live in this in-between. Too old to tale the tale with the expectation of rapt attention, but not too old to keep the lantern lit, waiting for when someone needs to borrow its light. Shakespeare’s pantaloon may shuffle and sigh, but perhaps he still has a role: not to demand the stage, but to be a quiet keeper of stories until the world slows down enough to ask for one.

click to hear:
Too Fast to Listen, Too Slow to Tell

Verse 1

I’ve got a pocket full of stories, Bought with blood and tears and years, But when I open up my mouth, The room has tuned to other gears. The world is scrolling, flying by, I stumble searching for the word— The silence says it all: They’ve no time to hear what I’ve endured. Chorus Too fast to listen, too slow to tell, I’m caught between the wisdom and the wishing well. I’ve got a lantern, but they’re chasing the sun, By the time I strike a match, the moment’s gone. Too fast to listen, too slow to tell, The stories fade before they’re ever spelled. Verse 2 I don’t want to be a burden, Or the fool in slippers worn, But I know a scar can be a teacher Better than a page that’s torn. So I hold my words like embers, Waiting for the night to fall— If the question ever rises, Maybe then they’ll hear it all. Chorus Too fast to listen, too slow to tell, I’m caught between the wisdom and the wishing well. I’ve got a lantern, but they’re chasing the sun, By the time I strike a match, the moment’s gone. Too fast to listen, too slow to tell, The stories fade before they’re ever spelled. Bridge Maybe it’s not my fault, Maybe it’s not theirs, Maybe truth is only heard When the heart is ready to care. Chorus Too fast to listen, too slow to tell, I’ll keep the stories burning where the old ones dwell. And if the silence breaks, I’ll be ready to share, The lessons carved in sorrow, the burdens we bear. Too fast to listen, too slow to tell... But the tale still lives, and I carry it well.