Language can only take you so far. It is a labor intensive task. It feels like an extension of the soul, an arm reaching out from the chest, reaching farther and farther but never quite reaching the point before retreating back into the self as it runs out of breath. A forceful, unwilling extension of something that you believe is intrinsically part of you, and being unwilling to share it, as if someone were to grasp hold of it it would contain the very fabric of your DNA which they could use to replace you. It’s a difficult game, overstepping holes and carefully jumping over breaks as if they were not there. It quickly reaches back for the breath that fuels it, but the need to move forward seems of a more imminent need. Sometimes the arm of the voice reaches too far. It reaches an unreasonable illogical distance, stretching its being like not enough lotion for dry hands, not enough butter for bread. It realizes suddenly it has gone past its limits, profusely apologizes, and retreats further back into the self as if to pay compensation for overstepping its boundaries. It burrows back into the soul and is filled with resentment for the egotistic act, and remorse for those who witnessed. The resentment and remorse lasts for days, sometimes even weeks, the soul further within itself. It stays until the resentment and remorse leaves, although never fully returning to the previous state it was once in. It’s a physical demand, an almost damaging experience. A part of the soul is lost and a part of self-identity put to stake.
The voices’ ability to not follow the correct path is almost uncanny. The extension is an untrustworthy messenger for the messages it should properly deliver, but regrettably never does. Writing, however, allows a disassociation from the self. The arm can reach out of the soul, but is blocked by the almost physical social word association. It is placed impulsively on a board, and merely becomes that-a word. The paper is a stamp of what the soul feels comfortable reaching out into the world. It is no longer an uncontrolled extension of the soul- the extension of an abstract object becomes physical, and loses a part of its abstractness in the physical being. It is set in stone. A soft, malleable stone, but a stone nonetheless. The words can be put out, reasonably, at any pace, and if wanted, unreasonably. But the soul returns after each word, a comfortable, non-threatening pace, with no need for a hurried completion. The soul pulls out parts, and stamps them onto paper. While they are not the parts of the soul itself, they are evocative of the sort. In this sense, a part of the soul is shared but not lost. Not entirely shared, but not entirely privy to being seen by others. It becomes disassociated from the body towards the paper itself.