That elusive, expressive, all-knowing voice

The “v” key on my keyboard is broken. This whole thing is going to be a bitch to write.

To be an avid bookworm is based on the premise that there is a never ending well of knowledge to draw from. And every book has a perfect and distinctive voice. Whenever I read I am drowned in a beautiful timbre, a soothing eloquent murmur. “This is my soul. And now you will see beyond your little island, across the sea into my soul on the far shore.”

Yet, at the close of every book, once I have been buffeted in a whirlwind of emotion and I’m finally left in my worn lonely single bed I wonder why I am not the same.

My “voice” is crazy, easily distracted and lazy as all fuck. And it’s most predominant characteristic is that it is just as confused as I am. If allowed to verbalise, instead of being restrained by endless editing, my voice would be a cyclic repetitive refrain of anger and fear that would occasionally stumble into a loop of paranoia.

All I can do is hope that I’m not completely crazy and that somewhere, in what is essentially word vomit, is a single pure bright thread of sense.

To describe me in a single word is to say: confused, contrary, crazy, contradictory, impulsive, manipulative, angry, paranoid, sensitive, really fucking sensitive, shameless, suffocating in shame, socially awkward, great at chit chat, defective obsessive possessive compulsive, like 30% bi and who knows what else because I certainly don’t.

My major life events were giving my mother heart attack during labour, what should not voiced allowed, that which I am ashamed to discuss aloud, being sent to and removed from boarding school, running away from home and the subsequent debauchery and somehow, despite stumbling catastrophically over and again, getting into a surprisingly brilliant uni.

Many would argue otherwise, but we are eternally influenced by our surroundings. They have taught me that I must always have a gang of more than one, that I must be as classy as a white girl and as ballsy as a black girl and as smart as an asian one well as as unassuming, tumour eyed, skeleton skinny and eternally legged as an anime character. I must simultaneously reject advances from EvERYONE  and get freaky every night. Never be publically drunk and get wasted every night and turn up to uni hungover and also never be unprofessional. Be a feminist but also be a Muslim feminist. Be an evolutionist and scientist but obviously the one true religion, Islam, makes complete and perfect scientific sense. Islam is an old repressive sexist religion and in comparison Western/Eastern/socialist society has all the shit worked out. All the people who share blood with me must automatically be my best friends and also the people I’m most likely to murder. And at twelve, sixteen, eighteen, twenty, twenty one, thirty, thirty five, forty, sixty, ninety, one hundred and eleven I must have, and never will have, all the answers.

So tell me; how the fuck can anyone survive this, let alone force anyone else to endure this with their “voice”?