Embryonic

There's been a story brewing in my head. There are two voices, each competing to be heard. Right now, however, they remain nameless and faceless to me. All I know is that I need to wait patiently, and that this waiting is tenuous. I mustn't push the voices too hard, yet I must refuse to let them go. Hopefully, one day soon, they will reveal themselves to me with lucid coherence in my dreams. For now, they are embryonic, and I am embryonic with them. We'll nurture each other into being. They will become flesh and blood by my hand, and they will voice me into being, mould me into a writer.

With these new voices, the old story that had been vying to be written is now buried, covered by a shroud of silence. The old story had grown from a time in my life that was particularly full of distress, whereas this new story had appeared as though out of nowhere, beyond my personal experiences. I don't see myself mirrored in the potential of these new voices, whereas the old voices took on all the nuances of my being, try as I might to dissociate them from me – They were parasites that just refused to acknowledge a separate existence. Perhaps they had sucked me dry, and now they themselves must die. The new voices, on the other hand, are strangers, are only whispers in the wind, and I must run to catch them. I must run to breathe them in. Futility is not an option.