There is a voice within that says more and edits less. It digs deep and dives down. It is impossible to embarrass and completely unrestrained. It refuses to keep quiet. It’s not interested in playing nice. It is passionate, risky, even risqué. It is dark and red and viscous. It weeps. It delights. It knows. It howls at the moon. And it writes . . .
But that’s about as far as it goes.
The voice without holds sway.
Pages and pages that never see the light of day. Notebooks and journals written by hand. Hundreds of documents started then saved. 3×5 cards scattered throughout a drawer. Ideas barely captured before they disappear. Disheveled and raw, desperate almost, this voice pours forth. Never mind the incomplete thoughts, the inchoate sentences, the impossible to define emotions.
Still it speaks, no matter how silenced. It is wild and will not be tamed.
Held at bay by nothing more (nor less) than a lump in the throat. Sitting on the tip of a tongue. Waiting to be welcomed home. Certain. Sure. Patient. Undeniable truth, endless desire, and sheer volume finally tips the scales.
The wild within is seen, run toward, and embraced – like the Prodigal returned. No longer outcast, marginalized, hidden away. Far from penitent or tame. Fiercer than ever before. Articulate and wise beyond measure. Then consonants, vowels, words, sentences, pages, index cards, memories, stories, beliefs, emotions – all will tumble forward. Falling, twirling, dancing, taking form. Every stroke of the pen, peck of key, and document stacked or saved will fluently coalesce. Alchemy. Magic. Grace. Nothing but pure, unadulterated beauty and strength flows forth.
On that day and for all that follow, finally reunited and reconciled to her very self, she will speak-sing-write-create her way way into a world that has been waiting for her all along.