i am not making voices, they are all mine

My boots strike the cobblestones, the chains swaying against my heels. I am walking fast because I hate the feeling of hard heel on stone, I can feel it inside my head, the vibrations make me woozy. I really have to stop wearing these boots. I try to switch to a tip-toe but that looks a bit ridiculous as I weave in an out of the baby strollers littering the pathways.

I look up and my eyes catch the telegraph insulators perched high, glistening in the sun and it reminds me that I have a box of them to put away a work. I always pay careful attention to the blue ones. They seem more delicate than the rest. I repeat the word telegraph in my head, and it makes me think of the last conversation I had with my mother. Well, you could send him a telegram. Who sends telegrams anymore, mom? Well, when your father and I got married…I hear my dad yell in the background; She can just call him too or there is this thing called the Internet.

I smile to myself as I recall my mom laughing. I cross the stones and make my way onto the dock. There is a softness in the wood that makes my feet relax a bit. I think back to the telegram, how the words were transmitted, how anyone receiving and reading a telegram would have felt. Did they read it in their voice, or the party who sent it. I wonder that when I’m reading correspondence. Sometimes I have to really think of the persons voice, if its been a while. I should write this down when I get home, maybe pose a question. Probably half the people reading what I write have never heard my voice, I wonder what voice they hear. No, that’s a silly I won’t pen that.

The dock cradles my feet as I cross above water. Below they are moving some type of seafood into large containers. I cannot see because of the sunspots. Voices are muffled against the bagpipes playing in the background. My pace quickens and the thoughts keep coming, I can feel my chest tighten. I clench my keys in my pocket. Words are swarming inside and there is just so much commotion outside. With each click of my heel there is a new thought. I think back to the telegram and how you only had a set amount of characters to relay something. I wish there was some type of mechanism that could slow down thought.

I reach the grass. My steps are suddenly met with silence. No vibrations, just the swish of the grass under my feet.

Sweet relief.



Filed under honeybees, words, writing

2 responses to “i am not making voices, they are all mine

  1. Twitter is the new telegraph, apparently.

    When you write in the present tense, which you do so very ably, it brings such an immediacy and an intimacy to your words, that I feel like I am inside your head. I think I am beginning to appreciate the vibrations and the dizziness. Wow.

  2. I had a line in my post which said that, but I omitted it thinking there would be backlash. ;)

    Thank-you, that’s what I was going for. It’s the only way I know how to describe what it feels like to have a constant migraine/feel dizzy.

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