Wounded Tongues

The joy of this virtual world is that we do not have to be an expert to speak. Gilded gates no longer halt our path (so they say) and all it really takes is some gumption. Maybe it’s a blessing and a curse, as we’ve become like ducks to water and created something of a cacophony online.

The blogging world has changed a lot since I last took part properly (3 years ago, by my reckoning) and re-entry feels something like stepping into another world.

Do I need a pass? Can I stand here?

Days pass before me as I wonder whether I left my tongue behind, lovelorn and entombed in another time.

Life has been a slow whirlwind this last year. The fierce questions and existential woes that grip your youth have held me too. I wonder daily if it is the right moment in time for me to do this; whether I know enough, whether it’s wanted enough, whether I’m good enough.

My palette, once wet with ink seems dry, drained of its delicate essence somewhere along the line. Yet still I salivate. Because old bruises heal and somehow, there is something left to say.

I tell you this, committing a handful of online faux-pas most likely, because it is all I know. No smoke, no mirrors. The burning desire to create does not disappear, as my bursting notebook will attest to. Yet if I let self-consciousness overtake, my tongue will remain heavy and grow evermore weak. Is my tongue strong enough to survive in this wilderness?

The creative world is littered with many hopefuls; from artists and designers to musicians and writers. Each composing their unique melody in this symphony of life. I witness at The Loft on a regular basis just how beautiful it can be. How valuable it is for these voices to be heard. Yet I still wonder where I fit.

This is the makings of our answer. Tired of this blight, I’m taking my medication. Uploading past work, figuring out the future. It is taking time, but here I am. Stitching my tongue together, hopeful I wake up with a voice.