Categories
Words.

Writing

Poking. Prodding. Pushing.

Covered by a thick coat. Of voices.

Once the tangible voices of people, people who ingrained their opinions in you. And you hear their voices as your own. No distinction. Yet another piece of you smeared over. Concealed. Wrapped in packaging that people found more acceptable. Less blinding.

And yet you sit. And peel through the layers. Through pain. Through tears. Through self-deprecating laughter.

And it pours from you. In a steady stream of letters.

And you see there is light. In crevasses where paragraphs once lay. And the images you were avoiding are on full display. They cannot be avoided. You can avert your gaze but they will still be visible. You can scream and beg and whimper. But it’s no use.

For the film has been peeled back. And so you set these images free. It is all you can do. You cannot hold them. You cannot fear them any longer. From the deepest hollows and the darkest valleys stories jump onto pages and scramble, and meander. Some join together, some remain single entities. Empowered. Emboldened. Speaking their truth.

You lay vulnerable. Bare. Naked for all to see. For all to scrutinise.

And people are shocked. For the light has forced their packaging open too. But they are not ready to see it.

So they try to push it away. By pushing you away too. You are tempted to get new packaging. And wrap it so tightly around you that the light will never be allowed to shine again. Yet you must let it. For you let the stories go. And they no longer fit into the wide gaping valleys the light has formed.

 So you follow it. Wherever it flows. And let it bore holes in other peoples packaging. So that they too can let it shine.

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