If I really listened to my inner voice, I would write without fear. I would tell grandiose tales of adventures and love, poems and songs of beauty and emotion.
If I really listened to my inner voice, I would surrender to my needs and desires, surrender to the erotic tales and horrific nightmares. I would find words that would draw the images from my mind in yours so that you may see the world as I see it.
If I really, truly listened to my inner voice, I would be free.
Alas, I am trapped.
My inner voice is trapped behind fear, the fear of rejection, the fear of inferiority, the fear of judgment.
My inner voice grows smaller with each stroke of the pen, each strum of the guitar, each beat of the drum. Smaller, quieter, barely there at all.
Why does she disappear, the still, small voice in my head? To where does she go when the resounding of the inane critic in my head is berating all that I thought I could be? To whom does she call when I cannot hear her, when she is alone behind the wall of my insecurities?
My inner voice is sacred. I hide her away. If I really listened to her, she would tell me that all she wants is to feel the wind in her hair, the sun on her face, and the pen in her hand. She wants to breathe. She wants to sing. She wants to write. She wants to be free. Just like me.