I feel like there’s someone telling a story in my head. I can feel the rhythm but I can’t hear her. She stands behind a screen telling her story in a mic.
“Once upon a time,” she says to a captive audience. I listen. I hear her and I listen. There are no words. I hear her. She fascinates me.
I hear purple and the sound of hoof-beats. I hear the sunset. I hear the birds. She sings to me the story that has no words, the story that lives in me.
When I hear the words I write them. When I feel the words I dance them. When I see the words I watch in wonder. The words, they live in me, and they are me. Like God. I hear the beat of the story with letterless words and it lives inside of me. Inside of me. I hear the story. And the story is me.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2011