This urgency to give voice. A story that demands to be told. In spite of fear, in spite of taboo, in spite of expectations and rationality and questions. In spite of it all.
A story whose time has come. Whose story. Because it has a life of its own. It breathes. It carries memory. It wrestles to see light.
And when it does, when voice casts light on darkness, it transforms. Transcends. Becomes something all together new. Takes flight with wings.
We tell ourselves that this longing goes against all rational thought. We struggle to state what is. Our genes carry memory. Of a time not that long ago (even now, yes) where truth was met with sword. Where life depended on keeping secrets.
What if life depended on the telling?