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The Sound of Me

Mask sculpture

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by Errol Strider

What if I were to catch the sound of Me?
Would it be echoes of storms in a cavern,
Or the twang of a guitar string pinched between two nodes?

Would the sound I make whistle as I rush to hear it,
Or become magnified as I bang into walls of impressions of myself?

How would my sound be heard by others?
As a cry, a weep or a big belly laugh caught by moss in a damp lagoon?

Shall I sound myself with words and grunts, hums and screams,
Or waves that go unnoticed?

Is my sound a harmony or the crash of cars in an old junk yard?
Do factories imitate the sound I make,
Or planes with a sonic boom?

Why can’t I hear the sound of me when I’m alone in my vacuous cell?
That uttered noise falls into itself like a ball thrown into the air.

It seems I cannot know my sound as it vibrates away from me.
I must either run to another sphere and catch it,
Or wait for it to bounce off a willing receiver.

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