I believe very strongly in the power of words. To ignite, to soothe, to pinpoint, or to release. From a young age, I began to write so that I could hear what I was thinking and to work out where I was. I found the therapeutic value in hearing myself think and felt my value there.
As children, there’s an implied “Shush” everywhere we go. We are too loud, we don’t know what we’re talking about, we’re inappropriate, or we just need to be seen and not heard. Adults are intolerant of children yet the smalls ones are much wiser in many ways than us. They laugh when things are funny. They still feel exuberant and free from self-editing when they speak their minds.
When we grow up, we understand the importance of not rocking the boat. Of keeping a low profile. Of being normal. But sadly, we also censor the most passionate honest parts of ourselves. Further, when we no longer speak with our inner voices, we are no longer listening to ourselves. We are no longer ourselves. We’re Stepford versions of us. Good dutiful Do-bees. The anti-us.
There is definitely a difference between speaking up and making a difference and knowing your words are futile. Why bother. But I think we forget that there is magic in hearing yourself think and speak regardless of how it is received. We have a right to speak our minds in America and we owe ourselves the effort to acknowledge our own feelings.
For me, there is power in the process of writing what I think and handing it out to the world. There is magic in transferring what I feel and gifting it to someone else to perhaps spark a feeling in them too. We build on each others thoughts as a world community. The sparks and the gifts of our communications swirl and rise our collective consciousness. In this way, we not only owe ourselves the gift of speaking our thoughts, we owe the world too.
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