NOTE: This piece is heavily accented with a variety of different voices, so reading it will not have the same impact as hearing it.
My voice never complains.
Well, not unless I make it.
Strains and aches and injuries abound, sure
But my voice, my special friend, chums up and soldiers on
I can alter it at a whim, and it never gets frustrated by my indecision
I can crack it all nasal and irritating.
I can slip it low and sexy
Mimic Yoda’s I can with it, hmm?
I can even *cough cough* fake a coughing fit
Truth is, my voice is my own little God.
Where the rest of my body just MOANS and WHINES
Like “UUUGH, THAT SUN IS TOO BRIGHT”
Shriek my eyes and my pathetic ginger kid flesh
My voice never tells me “These shoes are too tight, I’m gonna blister up just to spite you”
The elbows are all “Psoriasis! No reason. Psoriasis!”
My stomach says so very often “My God man, I am far too fat”
To which my voice replies “Well, I’m sorry stomach, but I like hamburgers.”
And I’m pretty sure my voice has never expressed “STOP EVERYTHING. I HAVE TO POOP.”
My fingers bitch and tremble, crying “Over a decade of guitar playing has shredded us to pieces!”
That’s right, I play guitar. Pretty cool huh?
So I muse to myself “Give guitar a break, let’s learn piano”
And then the piano says “Those calloused guitar fingers are dirty and heavy. They hurt my ivory face!.”
So the piano is talking to me. And this is my brain complaining now. “DANIEL. DANIEL.” That’s the voice of my brain. “I’M GOING MAD! I’M LOSING MY…UH…ME!”
But then to hell with you, fingers and instruments. Fuck both of you because thanks to my voice I can sing!
At least, until jealous Mr. Throat comes in, hoarsening up, readying weapons, STABBING, STABBING, and trying to kill my voice.
But my wonderful, stalwart voice will stay on its feet (whose shoes are never too tight) and it will whisper through the incessant volley of problems fired out of my malcontented windpipe.
It is the survivor of all that I am. It is what remains to express me.
I am a vessel.
Fitted flesh on a case of blood and bone.
This physical specimen is, well, not reality.
In time, come and gone, from semen to rot.
It is beyond what identifies that truly defines
I could step away tonight, wander in front of a bus, and shatter every bone in my body. My voice would still try its absolute best to say “Please call an ambulance. I wish to live.”
And with everything taken from me. All things cracked and destroyed, made useless for the remainder of my life, I could still cry, because of my voice.
And so, to my voice, the most honest and real part of who I am, I say thank you.