Friday, 7 August 2015

the sound of me, 7th August 2015

I don't even know what my accent is anymore...... I wonder what it would've sounded like if I hadn't moved so moved all around the world, hemisphere to hemisphere and back again, hither and thither, back 'n forth... and back again.... until my feet no longer even recognise themselves standing where they're standing for long enough to curl a toe and then... it was off again!........ now I sit here with the accent I have, the voice I have, scarred in strains and weariness, perhaps bland and a bit nasal, maybe even tiring to listen too.... which might be why I don't take that much, even I get bored of hearing it.......... it drones monotone at times and sometimes, just sometimes, is urged out of its doldrum to emotions emotional enough to bend its branches right back to almost breaking........... I don't remember the sound of my voice before it broke when I was but a younger teenager....... I can't imagine its sound anymore..... it's curious how we record ourselves in photos (or even video for some!) throughout our lives, and yet we don't regard our voices in the same way, making a scrapbook of our voice as we grow........... we record our height, by penciling the wall of door frames, even our weight for some... but our voices seems all but taken for granted.......... some have done of course, in recordings for this, that or the other, singing or reciting lines from a play, but not in the same way as we look back on photos........ I'd be, albeit reluctantly, fascinated to say hear myself aged, say, 8, or maybe at 13........ our voices change, like our faces, and our hands...... mine has morphed no doubt over the years and now is what it is.... for what it's worth.

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