(a stream of consciousness free write of the voice in my head called on to be present)
the voice, being vocal, sharp vocalisations, voices in my head multiplying the tiny heartbeats of each red blood cell pulsing through veins and arteries and capillaries, voicing the parts of a whole chord, the choir preaching to the coral in the sea, of keys, waves of off-key applause, noise as music, the ocean's tide pulling the mermaids away from the sailors, the sirens away from their seaweed hammocks; the anchor holding the kite of a ship in the water of the sky, darkness in the deep, the depths of a comatose sleep, a cloudless night sky without stars, the pressure to be silent or to be flat, to implode, to leave the world crushed, only for the voice to speak and sing again, for the bubbles of sound to rise, to rise, to rise up, up, up, passed surprised whales, exploding on the surface like a storm pushing up, the watery eye of the earth blinking, to sing clouds into existence, to yearn for a time when the moon may have its water back, its voice restored with gravity, with gravitas, if only science was magic and magic was a song the moon sang as a body dancing around a bigger body dancing around the fire with rotund friends just out of reach of touch but not out of sight, not out of sight, not out of mind, as visual voices, because voices can be seen as well as heard as well as felt as well as loved in the pull and the push of the universe expanding into the light, into the voice of atoms
This one brought tears to my eyes. I know I am emotional today but this... this.
(a stream of consciousness free write of the voice in my head called on to be present)
the voice, being vocal, sharp vocalisations, voices in my head multiplying the tiny heartbeats of each red blood cell pulsing through veins and arteries and capillaries, voicing the parts of a whole chord, the choir preaching to the coral in the sea, of keys, waves of off-key applause, noise as music, the ocean's tide pulling the mermaids away from the sailors, the sirens away from their seaweed hammocks; the anchor holding the kite of a ship in the water of the sky, darkness in the deep, the depths of a comatose sleep, a cloudless night sky without stars, the pressure to be silent or to be flat, to implode, to leave the world crushed, only for the voice to speak and sing again, for the bubbles of sound to rise, to rise, to rise up, up, up, passed surprised whales, exploding on the surface like a storm pushing up, the watery eye of the earth blinking, to sing clouds into existence, to yearn for a time when the moon may have its water back, its voice restored with gravity, with gravitas, if only science was magic and magic was a song the moon sang as a body dancing around a bigger body dancing around the fire with rotund friends just out of reach of touch but not out of sight, not out of sight, not out of mind, as visual voices, because voices can be seen as well as heard as well as felt as well as loved in the pull and the push of the universe expanding into the light, into the voice of atoms