I have fantasies

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.

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