Sunday, December 13, 2009

sketchbook: A Catcher in the Rye

My inflection gives my emotions away, I hear my words punctuated like an automaton voice recording, the feeling has dissipated behind them. I am exposed by my voice, unless at work where I am conscious to sound supportive and attentive, unless sometimes strict, and I never deviate from the role. Life holds no boundaries though. Before I can process the mood, my vocal chords will flux or go taught like branches against the seasons depending on the moment. I am helpless to an attentive listener. The keyword attentive, I suppose. And then I realize there is no need to worry, no one really is listening.

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