Speech. The millisecond before the delivery, the presentation, the sheer utter terror of the silence following the delivery, the awaiting of execution of judgement, the triumph of acceptance or the heartbreak of failure. Speech is beautiful, this acquiesce of the human soul condensed into simple noises and sounds. The solitary quiet of thought, easily shattered but commonly held whole, and the chaotic noisiness of the world, always changing but never static, hang in perfect balance. That miniscule moment between silence and sound is infinite and inexistent and perfect. The beat before the first word is transformative, the metamorphosis between thoughts.

Seminars are first impressions, and first impressions terrify me. I never begin conversations, allowing the other to choose the path. First impressions are the storytellers of the soul, and a misstep can lead to a frantic scramble up the steep hill of acceptance. In the first moments of the class, I drank a coffee as quickly as I could and waited for my confidence in understanding of the homework passage to appear. The discussion commenced, but the room was silent. I waited for an opportunity to interject my response, but there was no sound. I took a breath, my inhalation deafening in the still quiet. Maybe it was the caffeine, the nerves, the optimism I felt that day, some strange combination, but I did something I have never done: I spoke first.