Like A Cancer Grow...

Oh man! What a long time it has been. And for that, I received my just desserts. So, I am going through a transition in my little world and I am discovering that transition leads to a lot of bellybutton-watching behaviour. When I hang out with my friends and, during the dullest of moments, conversation drifts to workplace conditions, everyone I know declares that I need a new job. It is not a surprise to me - even after we get past the whole "boss smoking in an office where windows are locked" thing, there are many reasons that making a move may be wise. A big one, I am discovering is the soul-crushing nature of a less than ideal workplace. None of this is helped by a totally sluggish job market. So...

I have often found myself wanting to write, because I love to write and because I can't draw to save my life. Yet, I am either too emotionally and physically drained or I fear my posts will be full of bitterness and darkness. But now that I've written that, what is wrong with a little bitterness and darkness? It is the full spectrum of emotions that make this world an interesting place. Now I know. Always the tiredness though. Oh to speak of it, I would need a divan and corseted gown. I would need to swoon on it and groan "Alas" as I sank into the the massive cushions laid, just so, on the divan. "Oh, woe is me!" I would proclaim and the world would buckle at the weight of my distress.

For my lengthy silence, the gods sent true silence upon me. On the afternoon of 2 January, my throat began to tickle. I sucked on lozenges and drank water. I gargled with salt and drank more water. On 3 January I woke up to find the frog had firmly lodged itself in my throat. I sounded like Eartha Kitt's less talented cousin. It got worse for a few days and then it started to get better. I thought of writing but produced nothing. A friend told me that my rasping non-voice was a sign that I was holding things in and needed to let them out. I needed to write everything I felt out, she ordered me. I agreed heartily and yet wrote nothing.

The gods struck again, this time silencing me completely. I was whispering. Whispering. For a week. Any attempt to vocalise resulted in breathless coughing fits. I could not call my mother for sympathy, for I could not be heard on the phone. When people spoke to me that week, they all shouted. I kept wanting to say - I can't talk but my hearing is just fine - but they could not hear me... even when I shouted. Is that irony?

As my voice crept back, "The Sound of Silence" kept playing in my head. A few days ago, as I was in the shower, I sang the song (with mixed results as my voice still lacks range) and as I sang the line,
Fools, said I you do not know,
Silence like a cancer grow

I saw that I had forgotten this and was allowing the cancer of silence to grow in me. So, I must crawl out of this dark echo chamber of silence. I must do right by the gods and use my voice. Look out world - it's about to get loud in here!