Good Morning Indonesia.
There is nothing that so alters the material qualities of the voice as the presence of thought behind what is being said.– Marcel Proust
My ears are always hungry. They have their own sense of taste, their own sense of filtration. But there is nothing more delectable than verba; sips for thirsty ears… not just bland words but filled sentences. They aren’t just sounds that break the silence. They’re meditative tones in the middle of all the white noise.
Some of my fondest memories are the chance words, the one-liners people have said to me that catch me so off guard that I’m completely unable to speak afterwards. It’s why I have my notebook with me at all times… just to collect these fleeting breaths of gold that take my own away.
I like to daydream about a giant book that would collect all the words ever spoken (or even thought) in the history of existence. I imagine this enormous tome, dusty with age, filled page after page with the daily garble that comes out of our mouths. What a privilege it would be to read it.
I like to imagine having a giant instant messenger chat log of every conversation I’ve ever had since I was born.
What would I revisit? What would I avoid?
Would I be surprised with what has been said? Would I take back anything? Would I want to change any of it?
In a way, this is the spontaneous screenplay of our lives that, in seconds after the line is delivered, becomes a fragment of our histories. A lifelong production that is perpetually changing in all the nuances of the performance.
And yet there are scenes that are eternal. Ones that still give us chills when we replay them.
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