presentfuture | progression
I struggle so hard to type. I type and delete. My brain and body and spirit are full to bursting, but my voice, it cracks. In this life I have shone and I have stifled. My flame is strong now—how lovely to say. Still, that flame gutters, confidence intermittent. I gasp at the between-space of extinguishment. Depression. Will it always linger that near? Be that accessible? I can touch the vacuum of it in an instant, bittersweet. Depression, we've gone through so much together, friend; but I wish you'd move along. I type and delete.
So much change. So much opportunity. It overwhelms. Potential criticism closes in from all sides. If you're too happy, if you shine too brightly, they'll flog you. We're all too scared to openly relate with one another. All I want is to relate, to fuel that symbiosis. I type and delete.
But I'm still typing. I'm going to type even if no one is listening. It's an exercise, an activation of muscles. To oil my cracking voice, to ready myself for action. Because I will speak, and I will act, irregardless of who or what tries to smother my and others' voices. So many choirs to lend one's voice to! Well, here I am—signing up.