the chatter

These days I am sick of my voice. I have grown tired and displeased with the voice in my head, the one with me at all hours: in bed in the morning, at work through the day, in the car, in the shower, on my runs, in the studio, and again in bed at night.

It's there.

It's loud.

It repeats similar thoughts and questions and conundrums at near nauseum. These days, I am sick of my voice.

I feel trapped inside a tar bubble that will not free this heart and mind so consumed, and manifested here in this little soprano pitch. She just keeps pontificating and talking through the same circuitous dialogues... well, monologues. There seems to be no current escape.

And nothing I write can be committed to substantially. I cannot finish a piece of prose to save my life and it's driving me nearly mad. I am conflicted it seems. Words are failing again and again. And sadly, it seems I've lost trust in them. I've misplaced the great value I once bestowed upon words as they keep getting abused in the world around me. The words keep getting tossed around like mere playthings. As if they hardly matter. As if we can all say whatever we want without consequence. Not so.

I've been making attempts for the past few hours at a blog entry and some work in my journals... seemingly futile. Or maybe I'm just overly critical in my own analysis tonight. Thankfully, as I sought true inspiration in Lamott's Bird by Bird, I came upon this:


"Sometimes this human stuff is slimy and pathetic... but better to feel it and talk about it and walk through it than to spend a lifetime being silently poisoned."


The voice is still there. And the words, still slightly infuriating. But I'll take the frustrating chatter over silence any day. Because at least then, I know I'm really living. Feeling something. Making an attempt at this whole human experience thing.

So there's that.