Pen is mightier than the sword. But is it mightier than the word it writes?
The way words flow on paper, lighter than a sparrow’s flight and a maiden’s breath. The way the words give off a thundering echo in your mind, threatening to drown out your rationale. The way that words spoken come together in sweet harmony. The elements that we, summed up into a whole, call our voice.
But what good is a voice if we cannot use it? When the not-so-muffled yelling of your parents seems to threaten the thin sliver of wall around ephemeral inner peace and you cannot say a word. When the sounds of the air rushing by in a car and a song that plays, ironically undermining your fury. When your own thoughts bring you to your knees and you suddenly reach up to will away the soft tickle at your cheek and you suddenly find a single silent tear. It makes not a noise and you wonder where has your voice gone? When suddenly you can’t take it anymore, all the sounds of the world twisting your mind in agony and voiceless thoughts swirling around to eternity and your mom yells at you for unknowingly turning of the music and you crumble even further as your voice fails to explain.
When the world decides it’s had enough and goes back to normal, everything inside you has changed and you feel an unexplainable urge to do absolutely nothing and do absolutely everything all at once. You sit on a park bench in an attempt to clear your mind but it is in more of frenzy than ever. You watch the trees shiver in the breeze, the laughing children, the chaos of adults in a hurry and you feel as if you will never be understood. At that moment, you understand what it means to be a teenager. The words play Quidditch in your mind and yet, your tongue refuses to articulate them. You marvel at your so-called eunoia as you slowly make your way home. Sitting on the edge of your bed, legs dangling and wonder how could a solution arise when the problem is unknown? You feel the burdens of confusion on your shoulders and will them away, wondering where in the corners of the world your voice is hiding.
In a last desperate attempt, you close your eyes and try to force your voice to materialize. But it refuses to give up its vacation so easily and you are left biting the dust once more.
As you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, you wander aimlessly through memories already past, foolishly looking for a clue. You stare at your face in the mirror in the haze of a dim light. Is that an epiphany on the horizon?
The day comes to an end, and you finally find your voice in the words that you type but what good is such a beautiful voice when it cannot be heard?