The Voice and The Writer

The Voice and The Writer

I think that we are born with many talents, and if we are fortunate to live long enough, we get to explore many of them. I have been fairly far removed from writing, exploring other gifts that I suppose landed in my lap. I had always thought that if I had to start speaking my mind as opposed to writing, it would be as a performance poet, but as ironic as life would have it, it has been as a mystery voice through an electronic machine. In pursuing this and finishing law, writing somehow got lost in all the new found talents of the voice.

In the stormy months before I had to vacate from being a voice and in between mourning and longing, I found myself in this quiet place where the warm regards, condolences, and hugging hands can’t reach. I found myself watching  poems again and somehow found myself conversing with my writer self.

For the first few minutes I didn’t recognize her, at first she showed herself in small bits and pieces. Her reflection faded in a half empty bottle of red wine, and clung against the gulp of the white tablets it washed down. Her familiar songs, loud in the clutter in my head, in the frantic panic to find something or someone destructive enough to destroy herself with before she drowned. She was always a strange one, would always rather pick a weapon of choice, gale winds, and Iceberg, or a ravenous storm than accept that her ship was actually not built for these waters and was sinking. She would rather let them blame the winds than let them know that, all the while they thought her ship was floating, there was a hurricane in her with a gravitational pull stronger than the waters that carried her. She was a hurricane woman, trying to stay afloat forgetting that she had the force to propel her way out the storm.

It is strange, suddenly, I see the young girl in me, who couldn’t make sense of the storms that life kept hitting her with, so she held on to a pen. She wrote, but didn’t tell the pen her secrets, she wrote away the voices in order to find her own on paper, she wrote away the several showers a day that hid away the tears, she wrote away the silence she had given her pen once she discovered her voice, she wrote away many things, stripped them carefully of their meaning until all the omissions wrote her back into existence.

And there in the quiet, sweet centre, she found the girl that held on to pen for dear life, where pen was the shore and the navigation needle, where pen was the needle and ink was the fix for a hurricane trying to set sail, in a boat.