I’m trying to find my voice.
I’m trying to figure out when I lost it. I close my eyes and try to recall a memory, a moment, the first moment, where I felt like my voice wasn’t worth sharing. I can’t conjure it. I remember once saying so adamantly, it’s my turn to pass out the papers or smocks or something to the class, only to be proven wrong and end up sitting at my desk shame faced and utterly confused. I had truly believed it was my turn.
I’m trying to understand.
I’ve always had a voice, my voice. It has always lived in my mind, somewhere behind my eyes. Directly behind my eyes, actually. It observes, questions, narrates. It is fragmented and doesn’t always speak with words, forget complete sentences. Sometimes, it is quiet. Sometimes, it sings. Sometimes, it is unsatisfied with its home and escapes as a sigh or exhale.
Is my voice mine when it leaves me?
Or does it belong to whoever hears it? Or does it not belong to anyone, because how can you possess sound? You can record it, you can transcribe it, you can repeat it, you can feel it forming in your mouth. But when the vibrations slow then stop, it is gone.
Speaking out loud vs. writing:
Voice is important for both. Without voice, you can’t speak. Without voice, your writing is unremarkable. Without voice, you can’t speak, you’re unremarkable. Your vibrations never disturbed the air, never slowed to stillness.