Unsung songs.

Boundless the energy. Frenetic the pace. Unsung and unseen, the whirring and shifting in my mind, where never a person sees nor ever a fellow soul hears my lilting voice.

Inside my head sits the arbiter of all I see. He is there, I am here, and together we engender who I am, who I deign to be; less than all I am but caught by what I think you want to see. You are the wind and inside my body is the whirl, together we are the whirlwind inside my mind.

This world I see, so beautiful, and these people you are, so confounding, as confounding as am I to you, unseen, unsung, fettered and bound. Inside me is this force, this world, these dreams and visions so clear and true, so open and free, so fresh. Unique to me.

Their impulse drives me, fills my mind, bubbles over into my soul, sings my hopes, my tragedies, my dreams. Like a brooke they bubble out and over, like a dream. A night of hope. I wish you understood them. I wish it didn’t pain you so much to hear my thinking. My whirring. My incessant songs.

It pains me, you know. Hurts. That you switch off after so many words, so few words. My songs go unsung because of you, because of me. This whirlwind, this storm of people colliding , societies clashing, hopes and dreams and expectations blended together, mashed together, and I want, I just want to do the right thing.

You tell me clearly what you think the right thing is. The right thing, you show me, through your hollow words, your concrete reactions, your perfusion of misunderstandings and disdainings; the right thing, is to not be me.

I am me.

My mind, so full and so unfettered, even when I try to chain it there. Here. For you. For me. Or for what I think is me. It’s not quiet, there is no quiescence here. It is thinking, always and forever, mulling, ideating, connecting the dots in an endless stream of possibilities too dizzying for you to follow. I am thinking, always and forever, mulling …

I see you there, listening, trying to listen. Trying to follow, to grasp, to comprehend. And you sit there, assuming, thinking, boxing. I am like the others. To you. And I am unlike the others. To me.

I shift my rhythms. You make decisions about me and it hurts me. You box me to be like everyone else, and I see it, I hear it, I am not contained by it, but I am rejected by it. You and I are equals. We are human.

Please treat me like that. Please understand that I am completely other than you, just as you are completely other than me. It is your disdain of my difference and your unwillingness to understand me that I react to when I choose to remain silent. Your treatment of me — collectively, as community, as a society, as a wind of expectations — is what drives me to appear silent.

But I shall never stop composing, not even my unsung songs.