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Description

I've stopped trying to say things apart from the medium of music and poetry, and my tongue feels swollen and inflexible. For what seems like years now I've lived in my world of thought and feelings, neglecting what is, for me, the labor of articulation.

Just moments ago I was laying in the backseat of my car, watching raindrops slide down the windows when I heard a rumble of thunder spill across the sky. My breathing quickened and my heart began to pound. It wasn't fear. It was self-recognition; I heard myself inside that rumble. The sky's trembling was my own trembling. It's roar was my own roar. I watched torrential sheets burst out of clouds that could no longer hold their weight, and the tempest inside of me swelled in response.

I can't tell you how great this weight is I feel pressing against the walls of my spirit. Yet, my own ineloquent nature betrays me. I am a grey, grey cloud, my friends. I am black and blue from what's unspoken.

Writing has been my only salvation from this heaviness in the past. My fingers feel weak and atrophied, but I know the time has come to once again wrestle with language. It's time to speak again, because I realize the other option is to burst.