Mine is a problem not uncommon. I feel burdened with the need to speak out but the lack of ability to do so. However, to put it so simply would be a grave understatement. I lack the words, the eloquence to express myself in manner that does justice to the questions and answers that plague my mind. How does one adequately convey dissatisfaction, disenchantment, or disillusion; concepts so abstract yet ever present in our society?
Mine is not a new nor particularly loud voice, but a voice nonetheless. I am afraid, afraid that there is something that is only mine to say, afraid that no one will hear it, but most of all afraid that I will never know how to say it. I do not deceive myself with delusions of grandeur, but if I am to live under the notion that each and every single one of us has a purpose, I want to believe that I have already found mine.
I can feel the voice growing inside of me, burning, raging, and choking. I do not know what it says, only that it needs to be said. The longer it remains in me the more agitated it becomes. I will not… no, will implies I have a choice — cannot rest until it is borne. I am only its vessel, its shepherd into the light. It is its own entity. If I have ever been certain of anything in this uncertain world, it is that this voice must not remain inside of me. I can only pray I free it before it consumes me.