about shouting. Shouting from rooftops, from mountaintops, from the middle of the road at midnight. Shouting to no one and about nothing, or sometimes shouting at people or just one. I have fantasies about shouting until I lose my voice, shouting because it’s the only way anyone will listen. Shouting when no one is saying a word, shouting when I’ll be the only voice that’s heard. Shouting because I have something to say, and it’s been inside too long and the only way it’s coming out is loudly, inarticulately, raw and desperate, a choking sob of a painful truth. Shouting because my anger is escaping and I can’t control or contain it, my emotions coming out on full volume, punishing my vocal cords until they’re sore and dry. Shouting from a window overlooking city streets and telling them, telling everyone, telling them what they need to hear. What I need to say. A barbaric yawp, in the words of Mr. Walt Whitman.
And in these fantasies, I never know what it is I’m actually shouting.