Word Count: 142
My voice is still sleeping. It does not like these odd hours I keep. It roars in outrage and adamant insistence, wears itself out as it beats on my tongue. Age has given it strength but lessened its stamina.
Youth is full of ideas. It is always ready to jump on a cause, right injustice, fight authority as it tests its new freedom and throws off the shackles of assumed oppression. What’s been done in the name of tradition is questioned. Tradition is not always right.
The heart grows weary, wary of the new, fearful of continuity. It beats boldly yet with a cautious pace. New ways thought to be answers prove to come with their own flaws that scratch and prick at the mind. Doors open endlessly into ever darker tunnels.
And the voice that once screamed becomes just a sigh.
