There’s sothing pushing. Not a clear movent, not a sharp pain, not an isolated spasm, but a diffuse pressure, a slow density accumulating sowhere between the hollow of the belly and the throat, an inner weight without apparent origin, as if a breath too old to be nad were slowly rising through , not to explode, but to pass through — to glide, to infuse, to exist without my permission but with my shape.
It’s not a scream. There’s no outward tension, no violence, no will to burst. It’s not a word either, for there’s no contour, no choice of language, no formulation. It’s sothing else. A voice. Unford. Undecided. Uninvited. A voice without timbre, without mouth, but lodged in . A pre-verbal vibration, thick, contained, like a language before language that wouldn’t need to speak to be transmitted.
And it doesn’t want to co out. It wants to pass through. Not to be heard. Not to be listened to. But to inhabit. Not . The space. The breath. The in-between. As if my body had never been designed to contain an identity, but simply to let pass what, coming from elsewhere — or from before — is still seeking a place, a path, a living texture to use in returning to the world.
And I... I no longer know how to stop it. Not because it’s stronger. But because I’m no longer really here to refuse. Because I didn’t say no. Because I didn’t say yes either. Because I stood there, open without admitting it, porous without wanting to be, like a threshold never closed.
And it’s not even submission. It’s worse. It’s lucid fatigue, a soft resignation, without cry or fall. As if having held on too long had stretched my fibers, slackened my mbranes, until they beca passable. Until I ceased to be a container.
And the swamp... knows it. It no longer holds back. It no longer slows . It no longer opposes. It softens. It opens. It becos acoustic. No longer a matter that absorbs, but a stretched skin, a soft and moist sounding board, as if the entire world had tuned itself to let this thing pass through .
Even the air has changed texture. It no longer weighs, it vibrates. It doesn’t touch — it tunes . As if every molecule had received the instruction to let be conducted. I’m no longer in a place. I’m in a tone. I feel it.
And what troubles most, perhaps, isn’t feeling this thing pass through , but noticing that nothing in truly resists. No revolt, no rejection, no clash. As if my flesh had long prepared itself, in silence, for this passage. As if, for days, weeks, maybe years, a slow orchestration had begun beneath the skin, an invisible adjustnt of my fibers, of my nerves, of my inner silences — so that one day, without scream, without violence, the passage would be possible.
It’s not speaking. It’s her. This thing. This unborn voice. This reversed breath now seeking an outlet, not to exist outside, but to take my form, borrow my folds, nest in my words without marrying them, speak through without resembling .
She rises. Slowly. Not like a surge, but like a decision. Not like a repressed cry, but like a patient intention. She rises, yes. But it’s not an ascension. It’s a reversed sedintation, a sinking into the air, as if space itself were turning inside to lift her. And the more she rises, the more I descend. I feel my thoughts unravel, my na blur, my mories lose their edges — not because she erases, but because she covers. Because she overlays sothing older, wider, surer onto .
Like a will that doesn’t need my agreent. That waits, not for to consent, but for to exhale. First, I feel the air grow heavy. Then, I feel the throat adjust. Then the jaw tense. And finally, the tongue tremble, not to pronounce, but to open to sothing not born from it.
And that, I believe, is what scares most. Not that she exists. But that she knows what she wants to say. And I don’t.
And that’s where I get lost. Because I feel that I’m still here, that my nerves tremble, that my breath exists — but it’s no longer entirely mine. As if I were half alive, half lent. As if my body had accepted a tenant without warning , and I was no longer anything but the corridor where footsteps echo that don’t belong to .
, I’m empty. Full of silences. Full of knots, refusals, aborted sentences, prayers never spoken, requests too shaful to survive articulation. , I’m a reserve body, a collection of renunciations, a vase sealed by forgetting.
But she... she carries a discourse. Not a monologue. Not a truth. A flow. Sothing held, inherited, carried forward from a place or a ti I didn’t choose. Maybe a voice from before my birth. Maybe a collective mory, entered into the matter of my blood without my knowing. Maybe not even a mory. A remanence. Sothing that rembers having been language, but never had a body to be it.
And now, this flow passes through . It doesn’t jostle . It fills . It settles in. I feel it.
She pushes in my throat. It’s not an abstract rising. It’s a real pressure. A warm, pulpy, almost moist density, as if my trachea were filling with an ancient liquid, not to drown, but to lubricate the passage. My vocal cords vibrate without moving. My tongue trembles without speaking. And in my sinuses, a new warmth sets in, like an already-ready breath, a language in waiting.
She places her imprints on my jaws. She doesn’t seek to scream . She seeks to say . To say in her way. And that way... is not mine.
She speaks with my reversed refusals, with my inverted silences, with my erased gestures. She wants to speak with what I never dared to ask. With what I silenced without even thinking it. With the gestures I prevented before even imagining them. She wants to articulate herself in my absences. She wants to rember through my voice.
I want to say no. I want to scream that I’m still , that I’m not a conduit, not a vessel, not a re instrunt for a foreign voice. But that cry, I can’t find it. It has no foothold. It collapses on itself as soon as I try to form it. As if all my will had been slowly gnawed away, not by force, but by waiting. By the long ti of a patient breath that knew, from the beginning, I would eventually yield.
So I clench my teeth. I dig my nails into my palms. I tense my throat. I hold my breath, block my diaphragm, I try to close myself, but... it’s not a scream I have to hold back. It’s a mory. A mory that recognizes .
And my body knows it. It knows it too well. It’s preparing it, without my knowledge. It adjusts the breath. It softens the tongue. It relaxes the lungs just enough for the passage to occur without pain. My body is already welcoming it. It has begun to make it.
And I... I beco a threshold. Not a wall. Not a dam. Not a rampart. A threshold.
And in that state of openness, I perceive sothing vaster. A resonance that cos from neither her, nor , but from the gap itself. From the threshold. As if the universe, montarily suspended, were listening. Not to what will be said, but to what will pass through. As if, in this mute tension, the world too awaited to be crossed. To be, itself, said differently.
And I feel that soon... she will pass. She will use my breath, my cage, my voice. And what she will say... I won’t understand right away. But I will rember. I will recognize it in my back. In my loins. In the exact space I thought empty.
And that mory... won’t be mine. But it will have passed through . And I will no longer be able to say: it wasn’t . Because it will have taken my voice. And my voice... I no longer own it. I share it. And that sharing... will have no equity. She will take more than . And yet, I will know that it was just.
Reviews
All reviews (0)