My voice stopped making sounds one day: suffocated by the pressure, like a dancer on the tightrope between fear and courage that doesn’t want to try anymore. There is a certain agony in the act of stopping to speak, a heaviness that settles in the chest like a stone.
Silence can be lonely. When my thoughts raced through my head like untamed horses, eventually starting a tornado, I knew that I needed to change something. I often wonder about the vibrations of our voices in the spaces we inhabit. Do they leave traces? So I started whispering. My voice had grown weak, shaking in the wind. But at least it was speaking again.
Someone once told me about a poet who didn’t want to use his voice to read his poems to the people, so he whispered them to the trees in the woods. One day he died. His voice had died with his body because he hadn’t used it in such a long time. But the birds had heard him whispering. They would whistle and tweet his words, I believe they still do. This story helps me wake up every day and speak. Even if it’s only to the birds.
For more information: https://www.dna-artclub.com/workshops/inner-voice (event closed) for more events click here
See Us There.
Love, DNA. & Yi-Spa & Tola Janowska
Written For You By Sofie de Vroom
