As of midnight, I will begin my two week long vow of quiet. In these last remaining minutes I expressed my love to my intimate partner in as many imaginative, thoughtful, and romantic ways as possible. Now, as he sleeps, I am still wondering. Should I add just a few more rules? Maybe one more caveat? Will a smile be a polite enough greeting? Can I sing my feelings if I record it, and would the music go into the final transcript?
I said to Mario (as a way of telling myself) I probably just need to let go and let the project take over.
But the project derives its difficulty not from the stillness of vocal chords but the stillness of my spirit. Tonight I described it to my grandmother as the process of turning myself inside out. Will the secret part of myself that I preserve as sacred be able to thrive when asked to give its cloister inside of me to the big personality I've been wearing around for years? Will the quiet be any more than a thin veil across the loud, dramatic, and messy personality that people expect from me?
I want the quiet to be truth.
I want its difficulty to be revelatory. I want its banality to reveal honesty. I want it to be reality, contrived into a purity akin to fact.
I want the simple truth of what I said to be beautiful, visible, and yet mysterious.
I do not want memory to disturb the truth.
I want the document to live, and be my witness.
I want to reveal my vulnerability, my regret, my fear, my anger, my desires and injuries.
I want to be wide open.
Words cannot reveal me.
Maybe silence can.
The clock has just chimed midnight.
Goodnight, voice.
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| Journal Excerpt |
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