Where Do I Write From?
In silence, I hear a voice. I can hear someone speak. At time, the sound is deafening. I look around to see if anyone can hear the same voice I’m hearing and if they can hear the same voice, do they hear it as well as I do? Are they listening? This must be how animals felt. The annoying barking of dogs that kept me awake at night and drove me to throw buckets of cold water in the second floor veranda in order to force them to stop. Speaking is after all different from being understood. Like speaking a language that no one understands - a language that exists in a country long forgotten or a country that had been incinerated by the Germans or the Ice age. Who am I fooling when I pretend to speak the language of the normal? In the same line, who am I fooling when I pretend not to understand the language I have spoken since birth?
I wonder if Sign Languages deliver a louder sound than the Spoken Word or clearer than the Image of Written Letters.
In darkness, I see an image as vivid as when one looks up at the clouds in a fine sunny day. Am I the only one looking up at the sky? And if they are looking up at the sky, are they looking up at the same patch of clouds?
I walked around but all O see is the indifference of a universe that refuses to be moved. Why am I the only one who can hear her voice? Why am I the only one who can see her face? And if I’m the only one who hears her, if I’m the only one who can see her, isn’t it that the responsibility to let her be known fall unto me? To let the world that she exists? That she is here? That she had been speaking to us all this time?
A voice that only I could hear. A voice that has been silenced and ignored. I want to write for her. I want to be able to reach her soul and so I write
From the Heteropic Space Of The Unnoticed.