There aren’t many things that can silence the voices, the whispers of my demons. Distractions are all good until they aren’t. Suppression is like squeezing a balloon in the middle only for it to expand with an even higher pressure at the sides. The risk of an explosion or worse, an implosion, taunts me so explicitly that even with my eyes shut, I see it.
They demand to be heard, and maybe they’re right for it. They dare me to look, and to see with the naked eye what they have to offer. A dance, it would seem. One they have waited days, weeks, or months for.
We meet on the page, at the exact point where the pen touches paper. The voice in my head chooses this no man’s land because it longs to leave its mark; only then and there can it be tamed. But it only waits. It waits for me to accept this offer, and then the burden of the first move is mine. I lead, it simply follows.
Delighted by the attention afforded to it, it follows as the tip of the pen glides and floats over the barren ground that is the bank page. The dance with our demons begins slowly, builds up, and slows down again for no apparent reason, at least not at that moment.
One day a few years ago, over a much-needed bucket after work, my good friend Lance taught me a method of choreographing a dance, which he had learned from a dance coach in college, which this dance coach may have learned from some other wise source. My skills on the dance floor are mediocre at best, but I do know this one thing.
He said, focus on a single layer within the music. Take the bass. Or take the snares. Or take the lead guitar. Listen carefully to the music, dissect it with your mind, and pick a layer. Dance to that.
It would seem that my counterpart in this performance prefers the same method, as can be deduced from its choice of venue. And there is wisdom in this. At times, I would attempt to do the same without the page, and without the pen. But this bears nothing but the weight of overwhelm that sinks me deeper into the gradual swell of the voices.
Our demons prefer, as the choreography method dictates, that we listen more carefully to the music, dissect it with our minds, and pick a layer. On the page, this is the default. It is impossible to listen to everything all at once. Likewise, there is no writing page by page, only word by word, one after the other.
The dance begins slow. It’s a back-and-forth, a constant anticipation of the other’s next step. I’m barely on my heels throughout the whole waltz. No, twist. No, free fall, but only up to a certain level in the depths of the mind. Once we find our bearings, the way out is traceable but only through trial and error, and error, and trial again.
It is a tedious build-up, but it is one that rewards in proportion to the effort. As it develops, the voices that tell me of my worth, of what I do not deserve, of how much of the world is out to get me, and of how badly it will hurt once they finally see through me and into my real incompetence…they fall prey to the drying ink that swallows them. Not instantly, but word by word. Not always but eventually.
In the end what I am left with is a gift—a trophy of sorts—awarded for having endured the drudgery of filling the page. The gift is space. It is space filled with a hearty base of honesty, understanding, and perspective, and topped with a generous mixture of acceptance, growth, and self-awareness. It’s a whole stew in a bowl with my name engraved on it. Medicine for the soul.
Sometimes, it’s bitter. Other times, it’s the stuff of fresh starts—a new question, the beginning of a new conversation. On rarer occasions, there is only real silence, and the exhale we’ve been craving for so long.
Photo by my good friend Suy Marquez, many years ago