It’s normal that, every once in a while, the words we wish never crossed our throats go under a little impediment, by our own unconsciousness, when abandoning their nursery. After all, each one in it’s rightful place, correct? Sadly, such interdiction has been shaping itself more and more violently. Molded by my hands. Hurting myself with every word exhaled, and whipping myself with every word inhaled.
I’d like, solely, to understand the reasons why such phenomenon occurs, inhibiting my capacity to… be. I question myself, “where do such thorns, recently bloomed among my vocables, come from”. I question myself, questioning myself. Each word injures me in a different way, and i absorb the axioms from each scar. Scars, originated from mine, yours and his’. Words. Concepts, critiques.
Funny thing is, in a way, i recognize those tortuosities’ origins, and the reasons why I, alongside an external hand, gestated them. Oh, i definitely do. Might deny them with all of my strength, but I do recognize them. Those painful splinters are born from my insecurities, and my self hate. But I mask’em with humor — masterfully. My words have become, then, mere reflexes of a lonely wave, bothered by it’s own existence. And yet, I still utter every word i wish to utter. Every word that — even though it shouldn’t — wishes to leave it’s birthplace. And I do that because you can’t scream for aid without the classic “Help!”, correct?
“Help me”, I utter, silently, yet loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Help yourself”, I utter, loudly, yet silent enough for me to not hear anything.