My Voice

This is my voice. It is written, but it is me.
Though I may SHOUT or whisper, my voice is not limited to the production of soundwaves.
Did Picasso not exercise his artistic voice with paint in his blue, pink, and cubist periods? And Bowie, whether the Laughing Gnome, Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane, was much more than a mere singer?
Voice is a mode of expression and the expression itself.
It is to do with language, accent, and dialect.
It is to do with role, both perceived and projected.
My son’s keyboard has different voices. They are labelled piano, grand piano, harpsichord, electric piano, organ 1, organ 2, vibraphone and strings. Each is one of an infinite continuum, modulated by the touch of a pedal.
“I” am writing, but “I” could be one of many voices – in harmony (as in “we”) or in discord.
Though I write now in the present, those words are now in the past and what follows is the future.
Who is this “I”? Is it the father, son, brother, lover, colleague, artist, doctor, teacher, student, superior, friend, enemy or merely “other”?” Each of my personas has a different voice.
Is “this” the same voice as this, or THIS, or even this?
And what of those voices that have no objective source? The voice of conscience or reason, the voice from a dream, or that hallucinatory voice that becomes the foundation for a diagnosis of pyschosis.
And what of the voice I utter whilst remaining silent?

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