There's something pushing. Not a clear movement, not a sharp pain, not an isolated spasm, but a diffuse pressure, a slow density accumulating somewhere between the hollow of the belly and the throat, an inner weight without apparent origin, as if a breath too old to be named were slowly rising through me, not to explode, but to pass through — to glide, to infuse, to exist without my permission but with my shape.
It's not a scream. There's no outward tension, no violence, no will to burst. It's not a word either, for there's no contour, no choice of language, no formulation. It's something else. A voice. Unformed. Undecided. Uninvited. A voice without timbre, without mouth, but lodged in me. A pre-verbal vibration, thick, contained, like a language before language that wouldn't need to speak to be transmitted.
