May 24, 2021
Why My Words Speak
The sunlight filtered in through my bedroom window. I lay in bed, sprawled between crinkled sheets. The days seemed to run into each other, blending together like a blur. When I first heard of the coronavirus my mind jumped to sci-fi movies and books about mass population extinctions, aliens, and plagues. A month into quarantine, and I quickly saw how reality paled in comparison to these fantasies. Quarantine didn’t involve zombies, or a killer plague, or dramatic fighting scenes. Quarantine was mind-numbing. Halfway through May it felt like I’d already done all that I could do, so I slept. Day in and day out I’d wake up mid-day, check the clock, and will myself back to sleep, folding into the soft sheets of my bed. Time seemed to warp itself, stretching and shrinking. Life fell into an undulating rhythm, and I was stuck in it.
“Hey!” My mom called from downstairs, “Get out of bed!” A grumble spilled from my lips as I pressed myself deeper into the pillows.
“No.” I mumbled, too softly to be heard. The silence stretched.
“I’m going shopping with your dad!”
“Okay.” I muttered, squeezing my eyes shut. I heard faint shuffling, and the soft click of a door being locked signaled they had left. The house was still, and I was alone. Finding myself awake and unable to sleep, I shuffled out of bed, running a lazy hand through my tangled hair. My room remained dark as the late afternoon light filtered in through half-open blinds. I felt boredom gnaw at my insides. My eyes travelled around my room taking in the familiarity of it. The white shelves overflowing with books. A vase of lavender, their buds limp and crumpled. Papers cluttered on my desk along with an array of stationary I hadn’t touched in years. My gaze fell onto a pink notebook, and I recalled the days when I wrote a diary. I flipped through the pages skimming over hastily scrawled handwriting, letting the words sink in. I turned to a blank page. The emptiness invited me. I picked up a pen, its shaft decorated with a swirl of feathers, and let my words bleed out onto the page. A poem with just four lines, the words heavy on my tongue bled out onto the paper. I felt my racing thoughts slow. Drawing open the blinds, I felt the sun kiss my face, and continued to write. The next day when the morning sun rose, so did I.
I’ve always had a love for words. The first thing I loved about them was the way they tasted, the way a word would roll in my mouth when I said it aloud. I loved the way my stories could make others laugh. I loved the way my words could make someone cry. I loved how my words could show others how I felt, exposing my innermost thoughts to the world. That moment in quarantine feels so long ago. When it felt like the world had nothing good to offer, I clung onto my words. My words made me acknowledge my thoughts. It gave me room to breathe. Words are my sword, my shield, my home. They are my mirror and my disguise. They are mine. I am still the girl in kindergarten who would whisper stories to her sister during the dead of night. Sometimes life is hard, but my words never fail me. I can now tell people I love them through a simple love poem, or mournfully reflect over an elegy. I can tap my heart and tell others they touched me there. Actions may speak louder than words, but the simplest of words can convey the loudest of emotions, all it takes is a bit of heart.
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