The Little Voice

So there I was. Lying on my in-laws’ couch. The TV darkened from not being used, asking me if I was “still watching”. Sophie in the corner of the room, dreaming, I assume, as she barked her little barks with her eyes closed. Besides that, a muffled commentary of a wrestling podcast someone had fallen asleep to, and the sirens traveling the busy streets a stones throw away from the house, I was in complete silence.

Or was I?

Or have I ever been?

That’s how it starts, you know. As things or priorities start to disappear, you have to fill the spaces. Well, at midnight there aren’t a whole lot of people to talk to, so what shall I think to myself about then? What would you fill the spaces with? Dreams you had the night prior, perhaps? Aspirations you haven’t reached, maybe? A special someone’s image you’re fixated on?

I digress.

There I was, lying on the couch in the dimly lit room, deep in thought about being deep in thought when I realized- this is the stuff. This is the stuff that when someone writes about it, and I get the chance to read it, I’m connected to it.

Yes! Me! I’ve been there! I know what you’re writing about!

But then the other side of me creeps in. It reaches all the way from the depths of wherever it came from and grabs on to the items in the sky to do one thing.

Pull. Them. Down. All the way down. Into the nothingness. Into nonexistence.

What you think about isn’t important, Elliott. What you think about is a waste of time, Elliott. What you dream about does not matter, Elliott. Because the only one who cares is you. And you are nothing.

It’s funny. Well, not really funny as much as it is peculiar that we call that voice “The Little Voice”. And yet, we give it so much power. Is it a little voice because it’s not external? Is it a little voice because it makes us feel little? Perhaps it’s a little voice because it feels like a sneaky little something creeped up behind us and whispered it into our ears and into existence.

It isn’t ME that wants me to feel bad, it’s The Little Voice. It wasn’t ME that wanted me to stop playing instruments because I wasn’t good enough, it was The Little Voice. And it certainly isn’t ME that is one fat finger away from accidentally deleting all these words, it’s The Little Voice. The one that can take the blame for my insecurities and faults.

Well guess what?!

The Little Voice IS me. And I need to face that fact and do something about it! It’s about time I share myself with whoever wants me to share with them, and contribute to them in whatever way I can. And it’s because I matter! It’s because you matter!

I’m falling asleep as I write this, and it’s okay. Why must everything I do have to be perfect? Who decided that? The Little Voice? How liberating it is to realize that I myself have been dictating how I must be or how the writings must be before I am able to submit them to the public for digesting. I now give myself the power to share however I wish to share, and that’s that.

Does this have a message? I’m not sure. Is there a point I’m getting to? I doubt it. Is the writing becoming less and less sensible due to the lack of sleep? I would put money on that.

But maybe that is the point right there. Find yourself and find your little voice, and you’ve found the same person- and that is perfect.

Remember: You are the best you that anyone else could ever be.

Take that, The Little Voice. You don’t scare me.