There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
– Maya Angelou
Those moments. Those tensions.
You can feel an untold story like a brick in your gut.
It sits there. Silent. Heavy. Un-ignorable.
And then the words begin to unravel. Just a line at a time, sometimes only a word.
It starts slow, usually, gaining momentum as the words pour onto the page or into the sky or a listening ear.
They wind round and round and grow tighter and tighter as the story and its pain become real upon its whispering.
There’s a moment of tension. Will I stop? Will I finish here? Shall I tell the truth and the whole of it?
And then you leap. You leap into the chasm of truth and hurt and mystery.
You speak and whisper and cry even, sometimes.
It all comes out, in a ravel of words and silences and finally, it’s done.
The truth – this story – is out.
it’s been spoken into reality. Its weight respected. Its impact observed.
it’s that untold story – now told – which has now released its grip. It’s a story now, a truth, it happened.
It’s still its original self – whether happy or sad or audacious.
It’s alive and it’s real and it’s spoken.
The weight, silence, agony have passed.
In their place, a peace. A knowledge that truth has passed through here, and it’s been spoken and honoured.
It’s a freedom. A weightless freedom.