The cluttered cavern of silence
My mouth is stuffed with shredded cloth. This silence, these feelings that I am bound not to speak, they are not without a signifier. To become one who writes, I must walk again across the chasm beneath my words, confront the implicit idea that I write because I have something valid to say about the way the world works, that I am not a mere observer of the dappled shadows of the clouds lumbering across the barley field on a spring day, that I have something to say about their way or why of bring, some prismatic focus to bring the the rain cloud of chaos around us.
I do not believe in the clarity of my own voice at this moment. But I am stacking thoughts precariously against the bondage that restrains them, and one day soon, with or against my will, they will make themselves known.
When we were young we strained hard to conform against the pull of our own internal selves. It seems deeply ironic how soon after I find myself struggling to maintain a sense of self in the faceless onslaught of the quotidian demons.
Hold on...the phone is ringing.
Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.