Whether by ink and paper or keyboard and pixels, writing is a thought represented out loud, where invisible senses are the voice that talks, and physical senses are the ear that listens. The soul that accompanies the ear is left to interpret and feel.
Sometimes the voice recalls dark deep places that leave room for the storm to blow, for the tear to roll down the cheek, and for the fear to break and to defeat.
Other times the voice gushes fountains of joy, wanting to share with the world the magic that it has known, the blessing of a moment that makes everything feel like the universe conspires to give you exactly what you want, matching exactly with what you need, even when it was unknown to your dormant self.
As usual, my words are subtle and disguised. The second case stands today.
Mostly, I’ve been the only ear to my own voice, for shy private precious thoughts… not bad at all, a whisper in the air is liberated from the pressure of the enclosure of the mind, of the heart.
Recently, the ears have been multiplied, and even if some words will forever remain for me or for other person in specific, it has been nice to share a bit of myself… I’m liking the blog.