How many times did I drown my voice in the wellspring of weakness? There is comfort in the shallow. There is safety in avoidance. If you listen closely to what I’m saying my voice might give away too much so let’s talk about traffic instead. If you look at me in the eyes you might see what I’m hiding. The truth has a way of coming out; it has always been in our nature. We would go as far as inventing equations for it. We would go as far as Mars, even farther if able. Truth begs to be bared— not clothed in concealments and laced up with lies. Even if we plead not guilty, our eyes tell. Notice how our body is a truthteller. If you ask me what I wanted to say, I could tell you it’s nothing. Only my eyes would take hold of that split second where the Chinese cup caught a ball of golden light as I hand your drink. Only I would calm my hand not letting a drop stain the floor or your pants or your white polo shirt while I try to bring up something funny like the cat I saw during one of my trips. Only my lips would be pale, my palms would be sweaty, my chest would be heaving.
There is vulnerability in truth so I swallowed even the bigger bits of it. But I’m tired of choking.
What is it again I wanted to say? Was there anything to be said? It happens all the time. My truth gets lost somewhere in the absence of my voice, in the presence of yet so many others. I want to stop fearing how it will sound, or if there would be a sound at all. (Can you hear me?) Let me say this now. I want to love my voice. I want to hear myself speak and not think it sounds too hoarse. I want to love it even in its hoarseness— even when it shakes, or when it’s flat, or when it falters. Just listen to the pauses and hear what is being said in silence. If my voice cracks in between syllables of a word, let me thank myself for still finishing the sentence. I will whisper just because it sounds like a secret spilled and not because I’m scared of saying something silly. I want to love everything about me that is raspy— to love that which is rough and clumsy without thinking I am no longer soft. Like clouds and all the rain they hold, I can be soft and still be strong. I’ll bathe in gentleness lifelong and promise to stay afloat and to believe in promises once more. Have I forgotten I learned swimming in grade four? There’s no drowning this voice. There’s only riding the waves until I reach the shore and tell myself it’s okay to be unsure and still want to see it through. This spark of madness I braved on, I want to see it through.
To look back and see where I've been and how far I've gone from there, and to remember what I felt then but no longer recognize it. To say, “It was emptiness, wasn’t it? I wonder what it felt like.” To know it was longing but no longer long for it. I am slowly learning to be gentle in forgetting. Memories are like fireworks. They travel, light up, and die. Though they leave traces of smoke that aren’t exactly traceable. All I know is they last an impact. So forget about forgetting. It is just the mind’s way of freeing up space for what happens next. What happens is a child I passed by was riding his mini bike and stopped to greet me while eating his pancake. He broke in half the last bite he was holding and stretched his arms as I lowered myself to eat it. Forgetting makes me cherish every kindness as if it’s the last good thing I will remember to ever happen to me. Often the curse is in the remembering. Often it is the smoke. But forget about remembering. What happens is what happens.
This time there will be no restrictions. There is only allowing myself the things I once thought were off limits. I will not mistake fireworks for gunshots anymore. If my eyes are wide open because the bullets just might break the windows and kill one of us, I will close them knowing it’s just people not far from here adding sparkles in the sky as if stars are not enough. As if they’ve forgotten entirely about the moon.
Let me love myself at least this way. To have fun without thinking my laughter is a mere keeper of pain. To experience happiness as it is, sorrow as it is. To agonize in my anger, accept it, then free it. To still wish nobody harm despite being harmed. To let myself grieve for my inner child. To still think about forgiving. To forgive myself first for dropping the call the first time I heard, 9-1-1 what’s your emergency; for taking too long to call again. To recognize my emergencies. To teach myself to be comfortable asking for help because we can’t survive without each other. To look at these bruises as badges of bravery for still being here— for not dropping the call this time. To look at my wounds and still see myself whole. To have these wounds teach me the importance of kindness and self-care. To touch the wounds and find only scars and the people who mended them, including me.
This way, maybe I can love better. I will stop recoiling each time I think I’ve given more of myself than necessary. If I am tearing pieces of myself whenever I let the world hear my stories, then let me scatter myself everywhere.
![](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F995ae322-9d64-436f-a6ce-69b206af3bd4_1170x640.png)
When I saw this cat looking so chill in the pocket garden around six in the morning, I immediately thought about what Annie Dillard said when she saw a mockingbird’s descent:
“The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.”
The cat sat there unmoving with his pose. I don’t know the reason behind the leg lift but I chuckled at the sight. It was picturesque but I didn’t want to disturb the meditation. I continued walking, still watching, until there were only houses.
If the world demands our attention, I want to exude it. I want to see things in a different light and see them even when I close my eyes. Be there for beauty. Be there for grace. If to be present and attentive is to love then I want the world to teach me. I want to keep wanting.
So we can finally see each other eye to eye. The world is loud enough, and we are loud even in quiet. We look at each other in the face and see the words painted there. I haven’t told you, I don’t care much about the noise as long as we can still hear one another. So shoot your jokes so we can laugh about it (or not). Let’s talk about growing up so fast. Let’s talk about adulthood without even knowing what it means. Let us know in the listening. Let’s brainstorm if it is ever a good thing, and if it is, why do we always miss? That time when it was taking too long for the popcorn to pop and we decided not to claim it because the movie was about to start and we were running too fast and we ate instead the two candies we bought from the seller at the bus and we were trying our best not to sip it at once as we competed whose candy stays in whose mouth until the movie ends and we were giggling not even halfway through the movie because we knew the candies would never make it to the movie’s end. Or when we thought we had the time of our lives reading for hours by the stairs leading to the library, and we can’t go in there because in between chapters we’d think of a joke we just can’t keep to ourselves and we laughed so hard the people passing by started laughing too.
Tell me of your joy and pain and I pray to God you never stop. Did it ever occur to you that maybe we didn’t meet in the park just to swing in silence? We were meant to scream our grievances. When the sun went past its peak our words started to pick up speed because we feared the same thing. Our pauses united as we look at each other in the face and see the words still painted there. So tell me more, and I pray to God none of our stories be silenced.
in another life, I am a tree
in a way, you could still read me
I be a page and something else
I be a shelter, give you shade
I be a boat, let you float
I be what you lean on to
will make you swing
will hear you sing
in a way, love—
still in between
I loved every single word 😭