I used to write a lot. Back in the day, as they say. As a form of coping, processing, storytelling, escaping, rebelling, speaking, feeling. I spent years head down, legs crossed, crouched in the safe and protected world of my journal. Declaring teenage angst and undying love. Spewing poetry and prose about the beauty in life and love and heartbreak, in only the way one can who feels every bit of truth as it resonates in the heart and mind and soul.
Somewhere along the way, I lost my voice. I let it happen. First, it was lost in the crowd. Overpowered by the constant drum of heartbeats and footsteps and chatter. Then it was hushed and quieted. And finally, it was gone. My voice was lost. My stories untold. My secrets safe and tucked away.
Now, all these years later, my mind swirls with a torrential sea of words and thoughts. Feelings and worries. Doubts and questions. Swirling around, crashing into eachother. Trying to make some sense among the chaos. At first, it’s just a low hum. Barely noticeable. The hum grows ever so slightly, into a minute vibration. One that I just begin to feel, only sometimes, in the farthest recesses of my mind’s eye. I almost miss it if I don’t pay close enough attention. A quiet swish. A cool breeze. A barely audible whisper. I strain to make out the words and match them together with the emotions coming from my mind my heart my soul. My spirit, as it gently awakens, stretching it’s long limbs, opening it’s eyes and shielding itself from the bright and harsh truth. Just a whisper. Miss it and it’s gone. Like a child’s game of hide and seek. Stand ever so still, and when the wind blows in just the right direction it carries the whispers like birds flapping their wings through the sky at dusk. The quiet whispers of time and love and tragedy. Of joy and pain. Of sadness and despair. Of love and light and strength. Of stories hidden far too long.
A voice. My voice.