That which is between

It is there. All of it. What I think and feel. What I need to say. What I need to free.

Sometimes I imagine that I clutch at it with my hands, but it is as if they are covered by many layers of thick rubber which are covered by many layers of heavy woolen fabric. I am able to feel nothing except the broadest strokes of this thing. I can gauge its general breadth and weight, but I cannot sense all its tactile nuances. I know it to be large and heavy, but I cannot tell you of its texture or its temperature. It may be cool and smooth. Perhaps hot and slick. Maybe covered with tiny ridges, bumps or hollows. Whatever it’s texture, I can feel nothing but its dense, immovable presence. What lies between it and my hands is just too thick. So I grab at it and attempt to wrap my arms around it, all the while knowing that the only way to get at it is to remove that which is between.

Other times I hear it as my own voice, but again it is muffled –  deadened by that which is between. I know the voice to be my own but I hear it the same way I heard myself speak when I had a double ear infection – as if my voice came to me from the bottom of a deep, still lake. As if it had been removed from my body and dropped into the water where it sank slowly to the bottom, eventually lodging itself into the sandy floor. I hear myself speak and I know it to be my own voice – just not in my body. My voice shifting slowly across the bottom of the lake. Coaxingly  nudged by the gentle movement of the water. Sometimes it comes to me clearly and I hear every tinny word. Other times it is muffled and I hear nothing but its murmurs and undulations. Perhaps it has settled under an umbrella of rock against which its words bounce and return to it without ever being understood. And other times still, it is completely silent. Perhaps because it has been swallowed by a large fish. Temporarily existing  in the shadowy innards of some dweller of the lake, until it is expelled, having yielded no sustenance for its host.

This then is the work. The work of peeling off the layers. Of removing what is between.

This then is the goal. The goal of retrieving my voice. Plucking it from the wet and placing it back where it ought to be, so that I may speak that which needs to be spoken and free that which needs to be freed.

It is the work of letting what is to be felt be felt and what is to be said be said.

This way freedom lies.

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