I am inexperienced. But because I have a penchant for listening to others, I have the opportunity to hear their stories. From these life experiences, I felt the rawness of each personality. I sensed the animality of each existence. I was able to hear various tempos in their musicalities_pleasure, sorrow, detachment, regret, hatred and repentance. Love and happiness are more audible. It’s like listening to a newborn’s cry_ very intimate. I listened to every syllable spoken. I took note of how the voice rapt up, slowed down or pitched higher. And then, I imagine.
I imagined with clarity while I close my eyes and transcend to their animated world. The score, the original soundtrack, the one true pairing, the cinematography, the conflict and the climax, the resolution and the depth of the story…they move with substance and poetry and while imagining these brilliance, I became an accidental director and scriptwriter.
Nay, I knew when the truth is reversed. There will be a crescendo in the tone. It will sound like a malfunctioning ellipse. Other times, I cannot decipher when real is reel. The speaker is so crafty a dubber he mastered voodoo voices to mask evil with innocence. I knew I have been deceived, but reality or otherwise, as usual, I am engrossed with the drama. His forlorn, hopeless sighs traveled with a curse to manipulate the weak and the submissive. His agonizing whimpers pelt my skin. His bellowed scream ripped my heart. I knew it was a white lie. Yes, I have always known.
And then I switched ears and listened rapturously to her high-pitched sopranos. Ah, that excitement is contagious. Her cackles, the stifled giggle… it was so addicting I imagine a scene in the circus with all the merriment of a happy and driven girl. There she goes, in awe about her newly discovered wonders. I tensed when I heard her whisper the name of her lover. Naughty. I can’t help but burst out in laughter.
Who knows how inexperienced I am when from the sounds I hear, or from the stories I’ve heard, I speak in behalf of them. I embodied them. Though it was good and evil, their stories became mine. And because I knew how to arrange words to become good phrases and phrases to become note worthy sentences, I became a thief in the night. Sentences piled up to become daring paragraphs. With meditation and prayer, these sentences became an empire of a story, stories stolen from shared experiences of various voices.
Yes, I stole someone else’s thunder. They tell, I listened. I retell, they were awed.
One day, I will sell these stories.