sometimes I want to scream, to open my throat and let raw, audial emotion pour out of my mouth
in unlikely and inappropriate places:
I want to be louder than the grate of iron against iron on the metro, than the sharp whine of subway against tracks than the hum of electricity and the noise that makes up this city and the noise that makes up the world. I want to be louder than the noises that reverberate from other people's lives, and louder than bureaucracy, and louder than the din of policies and senseless complaints.
but then I think about the summer lockdown, the humidity of western Tennessee, the chorus of cicadas in the forests, devoid of human noise and interaction.
I think about the luna moth I found on my doorstep one morning, Sheltered from sun, cicada, and wasp. They stand for luck, you know, and all good fortune.