His throat clogs with an indecisive spasm. His lips part but the words do not flow as a steady stream of thought. He grips the edges of the podium, taking strength from the sturdy oak to calm his rattled nerves. He was taught to always say the right thing.
But sometimes the right thing isn’t always the true thing and he isn’t a liar. He gazes at the rapt audience and his father’s confident smile, but he knows he doesn’t want to be like him. He doesn’t want to be the pretender who rouses a crowd, greedy for yummy morsels of what they want to hear.
Change in the right direction never starts with honey-dipped words. It’s almost always an uncomfortable shift that provokes resistance and some level of loathing. But he doesn’t want to be hated for speaking without a glazed sensitivity to their brittle feelings.
If only his words could be pulled directly from his body and become the distinctive image of his beliefs. Yet he knows even that would be turned into an effigy and he’d become the subject of public disdain. Still he doesn’t allow that awareness to stop him from going against his father’s methods and speaking his own truth. He takes a deep breath and feels a surge of confidence push the words past his lips…
***
This story was inspired by art from Avogado6
Nomad Writer 
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