Who do I speak to when everyone else is asleep and I alone seem to be the only creature conscious? I speak to you, the unseen reader.
I have a confession. I have few things I liked about my 'former self'. One of those things was my singing voice. I belt out Meat Loaf tunes at blistering volume from the safe confines of my car. No, I'm not quite so sadistic as to force others to listen to me sing… unless they are the unfortunate victims known as passengers.
I like my voice. It ranges upward to nearly the level of Gwen Stephonie of No Doubt, down to Eddie Vetter of Pearl Jam… or James Hetfield of Metallica.
I don't want to lose that. I want to get up on a stage, and for one night, I want the unseen crowd to worship me as I rock their fucking asses off. I want to sweat and pant and scream till I'm hoarse, whipping a croud into a frenzy. I want to stink from sweat and throw myself into a sea of people and be carried away by their arms.
I really don't give a rats ass if it's not ladylike. I can give up a lot. I can give up whatever unseen privilege of masculinity. I'm more than happy to get rid of the anatomy. But… not the voice. I use it as a means of expression. Deep and rumbling as it can be, I love it. Please, don't make me silence it.
My expression of music is solely through my voice.