A Note on the Dual Voice:
This piece is a dialogue between two worlds: The Adult, navigating the friction and demands of the world, and The Child, holding the soul’s original spark beneath the armor. It is a practice in unmasking—where the performance ends and the heartbeat begins.
I’m standing at the top of the stairs, and I’ve brought a light. I know it’s been decades since we really spoke, and I know why you stayed down here in the dark. You were protecting the Gold; the weird, vibrant, un-ordered parts of us that didn’t fit into the systemic machinery. I’m here to tell you that the appropriate world outside is actually starving for what you have. You don’t have to translate yourself anymore. I’m here to walk you up.
Is the hallway quiet? Is the coast finally clear?
I’ve been hiding the Messy for fifty long years.
The Sentinel told me my pages were wrong,
That I didn’t belong in the Normal folk’s song.
If I come to the light, will the Ritualist scream?
Will they see that my mind is a high-voltage dream?
I’m not on their page, I don’t follow their line,
If I’m not a Scholar, then what’s left of mine?
What’s left is the truth. The Sentinel and the Ritualist were just doing their jobs; they were guarding the door because they thought the world was a war zone. But we aren’t imposters, little one. We were just speaking a language the room hadn’t learned yet. It’s okay that you aren’t on their page; you were busy writing a better one. You don’t have to be appropriate to be essential.
But the room is so full of the people who ‘know,’
Who move in a rhythm that’s steady and slow.
I’m scanning for threats and I’m counting the beats,
I’m trapped in the loops of my mental retreats.
Are they masking as well? Are they hiding their sparks?
Are we all just performing our roles in the dark?
If I show them the ‘Weird,’ if I show them the blur,
Will I finally be seen as I actually were?
Most of them are holding their breath just like you were. When you show them the Weird, you’re giving them a map to their own basement. Your neurodivergent vision, the way you see the patterns and feel the frequencies, isn’t a glitch. It’s the Gold. I am grounding the Sentinel now; he can stop watching the door. The Ritualist can stop checking the locks. The Impersonal Scholar is just a character we played, but you are the life.
Then I’ll leave the shadows, I’ll step on the floor,
I’m not the Imposter I was anymore.
I’m messy and loud and I’m wired for more,
Than the Normal scripts ever were written for.
I’ll bring out the static, I’ll bring out the glow,
I’m ready for all of the Appropriate to go.
The performance has officially folded. The Same Page is a myth we are leaving behind. We are moving from the exile into the homecoming. You are allowed to be un-ordered. You are allowed to be a beautiful anomaly. The stairs are right here. Let’s go home.
If you missed the research behind this reflection, you can find the foundational article in my series, Where the Healing Begins, exploring Metaphysical Science and the lived reality of chronic survival below,
The Beauty of a Switchblade will always be a free space to read and rest. If these words found a home in you, you can hold the physical weight of my journey in your hands. My debut collection of prose-poetry and original illustrations, Where the Broken Light Falls, is now available on Amazon.
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