There comes the inevitable moment when voices have to collide. The voice within you and those of others. It is always tempting to remain silent lest the voice which you wilfully let loose be greeted with dismay, or worse still; it is a voice which is so unpolished that it may stir feelings of denial and shame from the giver himself. That would not be an ideal state; it appears that silence and observation of the forms of others from a distance would be a more astute option. Vis-à-vis the possibility of being drowned out from others’ voices, and be forced by one’s prideful nature to retreat into yet another of the many caverns he has dug out his entire life thus far. Another hiding place. Another time to ponder, and to build again. To polish one’s voice and to let the cycle repeat till that ineludible juncture of collision again. This seems plausible for a retreat plan. To hide and to build till the grotto can no longer contain that which you are creating and refining. It is an explosion we all long for. That explosion that signifies the coming of our times. That moment which belongs to us.
It becomes something else that consumes. It becomes a blinding pursuit of refining one’s voice. Here is where the problem lies. The amelioration of that voice can only be bettered when we allow ourselves to be exposed to others’ voices, to subject our standards according to theirs. That our benchmarks are precisely the way they defined it to be…to become the same as them. As they have too, become what others before them have intended for them to be. A mould which all want to fit into. A singular voice shared by so many it is impossible to distinguish one from the other. It is the correct route, but by no means an easy one. It requires dedication. Any esteemed destination would require a prior process. Perhaps the difficulty of the route gives a sense of vindication to those who have attained this general standard. It is indeed a comforting ladder rung to set one’s feet on. After all, there is a definite end to it. The general others would be there to witness your ascent.
Or yet in another extreme posture- to take heed of these no more. To be this ignorant requires a transformation. A radical one. It is akin to that of bashing through the bushes and branches in your way, while being mindful of every possibility of falling into a pit. Of being captured. Of an untimely closure. Of becoming what others have become. But you do know that by running on, by being voluntary oblivious of all these fears and possibilities, of being cut by the thorns, of a fall, of not reaching the end you can’t see- you persist and you run on. It is a stubborn spirit. It is being unpolished and after giving considerations to all, to become untainted though you were once afraid which led you into contemplations that have only paralysed you before. It means running like a child once again…an overgrown one. Being raw and being fully aware at the same time is a delicate balancing act which appears divorced from the realities of uniformity and standardisation. The first requires a childlike curiosity while the latter composes the revisitations of pains of a grown man.
It is no longer a desperate hunger, but a defining desire. There is a light which we envisioned. The picture we have seen recurring within our heads. The scene we long to be the centrepiece of. This moment will pass, and we will be silent again.
There is a sunset l long to see beyond the cliffs. There is only one way to catch it.