Voices carry weight

I moved a lot over the last four years. So much so that it became my favorite word. It became so because of its general sense of aimlessness. The kind of action that doesn't really describe the action except in general terms. I moved. Like a domino piece colliding with another on a track created by the past. Wow, that sounds a lame, but it is the reality of the situation. My past, and present up until recently, framed what happened. Causality, the term not many were familiar with until after the Matrix Reloaded, became the driving force behind everything. I began listening to the comments of those around me. I began listening and the foundation I had built with layers of belief in myself and what I knew that I wanted, loved, and needed decayed from upkeep. Things deteriorated and I began believing those voices. Those who believed that they knew best: friend, family, random television man/woman, characters from a film or book or anything. Turns out they couldn't have been more wrong.

Eventually what I heard was their comments, or even what I believed were there comments; without even knowing for sure. This judging echo, a vapid, spreading out thing took the place of the other voice that was there. The one I loved. The one that gave me ideas for papers, stories, poems, conversations, and books. This voice which came extinguished like a pilot light made me feel like me. The real me.

I would walk down streets and be writing the first lines or phrase or scene descriptions for the passersby without them knowing. They're eyes welcomed to view what I viewed, ears hear what I heard, and emotions feel what I had embraced, created. It was as beautiful as I can put into words. But it's back.

I got home from hanging out with Mikey C. tonight. The drive home started off by me singing along to some Gatsby's American Dream and day dreaming of performing in front of expanses of people, friends. Then a white wash hit the part of my head that most people signify as the stress center. Where our gathered up stress pushes hard. And then, the white wash became a voice. Stronger and more numerous than I remember it. Ideas, lines, philosophies moved like varying wavelengths on a spectrograph, and I saw it all. Felt it.

And now I'm thinking about what I can do to retain those voices. They begin with a full-scale model of me.