Somewhere, some when my voice became stuck. A failure to launch. It rests between never and hardly. Inside my mind, rarely set free. Saying things no one should hear. Sounds that echo and reverberate inside my skull. Words that escape are hollow, cracked, languid often stunted by tears.
I say this in wonder if my voice were set free, finding open, external sound, if the noise in my head would calm down? I am aware. The happy, helpful tricks all there. The hinderance crossing that bridge leave me unable to answer the guard’s riddle. The critic doubts. The worrier burrows. On this side wrapped in fear, anger, sadness. The disgust plants, wondering if the voice of joy is… there.
The thought of my voice makes me feel small.
A Better Father 