Marco Di Caprio

 

What horror. What stands before me? A disjunction between opposing transistors, between input and output. A voice shrieks in piercing registers, like violins twisting toward their own annihilation.

What is this voice?

I woke with a start, drenched in sweat. Such a terrible voice, such alien words. Inverted, senseless fragments. Words that, within the dream, dissolved into signs and sounds severed from meaning, phonemes adrift in broken syntax.

I rushed to the television and let avant-garde music flood the room. Its spiraling vibratos and electromagnetic pulses revealed a single truth: my incompleteness.

Then I understood, and a mournful chant rose within me. I am stalled at the input. I am trapped within a closed, self-referential system. My mind is clouded, its chemistry out of alignment. Am I speaking, or is something else speaking through me?

Why can I not sing to you as I should? Why can I not shape a line with dignity? Why do I twist syntax into feverish games that unleash a restless frenzy?

My voice softens. It vibrates now in faint, delicate melodies as I dwell in the fragile birth of a line.

Illuminate my voice. Strip it of excess, of ornament, of noise. Let it speak without strain.

Let me break through, not by necessity alone but by truth. Toward a form that does not betray itself. Toward a word that does not collapse. Toward something that endures.