Our voices are not our own FULL TEXT
Feet are filling with tears. Overflowing. Your words in my stomach are stones - piling up to my mouth - syllables blocking my pharynx. Leaving only ears; clear passages to the tone of the sky, a particular hue of night
Arrows of sun bounce around walls as a ribbon of vowels travels toward me. A voice unfurls through the air, neither red nor blue, colourless it feeds me with its tongue and I inhale; speaking the words inside. You see them crackling in my lungs and put an ear to my chest, I hear similar streams of colour in your breath...
The voice escapes, falling from a great height onto the pavement below, where the wind plays with its edges, whispering along the street. Bending down I pick up the voice, hold it to my ear, stealing its sound. Glimmering along the canal until my brain pulls it in; refracts it’s meaning into movement.
Gesturing, from across the way, someone sees me with the voice and beckons to me. Their silver speech hurtles over the passing cars and lifting my right hand I clutch at it, rescued from air, it joins the other. I am forming my own voice, picking up words and sounds, turning them over in synapses. Dropping one for another, until I form a stream of colour, swallowing it down to my throat. My tongue feels it curl; taught then loosening as I open my mouth. Released - an arrow - towards the someone - who still stands opposite.
Shards of voice lie behind doors, glitter at the ends of streets, glow under every object. They are the shadows to the world we have created.
As I walk home one night I stand on something sharp that makes me wince and pick-up my foot. Stuck on it’s sole is one such shard reflecting the artifice of the lamps that parade down the street. A car pulls up, slows, and afraid for my voice, I peel back the broken one, letting it slip from my fingers and run home.
...Turning your eyes into mine - lips parting - sentences gathering - you say:
Our voices are not our own - they visit us - and we can only hold them in so long