and still i can’t find my voice. so many questions unanswered, they ring in my head till my ears ache. my voice trips down my spine, into the thick of my shoulders forming subjects of knots, this subject that subject, be this or this or this. but never that. be quiet, don’t ask the one question that locks in my spine causing paralysis of mind. and my back becomes a fortified wall that i hope one day will crack like frida kahlo’s. but so far it remains strong, my spine, the muscles refined and attached, still flinch at the touch

What should i say to you now? how was your day dear? such banalities that can never convey anything at all that i may think. i turn to my mind and it feels empty. how does your mind feel? is it mushy? my mind feels rigorous when i move. when adrenalin flows through my neurons, connecting, igniting. like i can wrap myself around my mind and shape it, mold it when i am in motion, connected as a part of my body. it’s almost like i have add sometimes, my attention span idling when i’m not moving, and then getting lost in the repetition of jogging on the spot. that’s when i forget everything. and i need a tuner to come in and stop me from revving too high, to stop the oil from flooding me too fast. so that my thoughts have time to ruminate rather than getting eaten up by the infernal machine. The infernal machine that needs to be fed, topped up constantly so that it can put out constantly. as if there is a part of me that needs to be shut-up, kept occupied, drugged into submission, so that my other sybil can escape unnoticed. The escape, all for the escape. why does it seem that one needs to be silenced so that another can speak? Is this the frisson that the french love to analyse so much and that the americans abhor?