I have a voice. My voice is strong, echoed and, least of all, empty. I’ve noticed over time that my ability to express myself is best grasped through the form of written words, such as an artist is with paint on a canvas. No one can interpret my words, however gently spoken they may be, in the way I wish them to. My feelings are overgrown, and, at times, stronger than the thickest alloy. I say what I mean, in both type and voice, but it never arises to empower my feelings and mingle with my intentions. People read what I write with no answer as to why I wrote it or what it means. As if I’m writing blindly, no light to see how I truly do. It makes my words vacant and shallow, closed to the curiosity and imagination of my audience.
My only intention through writing is to express how I feel, to share with the world my opinion and justification for it. But even then closest people to me, the ones I would at least hope to mask their true feelings with opaque lenses, see my writing as menial and sheltered. To know that I can’t even touch the spirit of those I care about with my passion is… unpleasing to say the least.
I write this knowing it’s laden with errors and centralized around opinion. I use tone in my writing, I always have and always will. I write in my voice; I think it, I write it, I mean it. Just as with reading, the words aren’t whole if they don’t capture experience and float off of the page like smoke. Typically I would have a purpose for writing something. To explain, to clear misconceptions; perhaps in this case I have no point, maybe my pencil has dulled. Either way I put it, my writing is still neglected. What is my solution?
Should I write from your perspective? If I do that, my purpose is lost within my mind. Should I write of more favorable topics? I choose to write about things that are important to me, such as this mess of mixed words and thoughts. Should I deny my feelings and perceptions? That, in terms of all consequential outcomes, is not a risk I’m willing to take. I could lay back with my hands in the air without a care. I could choose to put my pencil down, and rip apart this piece of paper. I could see it as you do, a rant, purposeless, misguided. None of these are solutions to my lack of human resource. As the night ends, I know that the things I write are important to myself. That I’ve captured how I feel through my burdened eyes, through the test of time and in your mind whether you would agree or not. You may see it differently, maybe you do, indeed, appreciate my writing. I could stick to reading a dictionary and skimming through essays to better my writing. Or maybe I could keep doing what I am; I could push my words to the point of exhaustion, strip them of their importance and interest, and never find an audience filled with excitement.
Like many writers do, I find myself thinking back while writing this, wondering what kind of scattered attention it brings. I do not know what your reaction to this is. Nor do I care. I haven’t been shown attention or interest through my writings. Because of that I’ve learned the true importance of my writing. Like my opinion on paper, my signature, my swollen knuckles, my hidden sympathy, my colorful language, my twisted reality, and my flustered face in the steam covered mirror, my writing is indicative of me; the picture of me that sets me apart from the beggar on the street. It’s the fading shadow of my hunched visage. It’s who I am, and it isn’t worth changing.