Sometimes it happens that you become a dialect of yourself. Over time your heart and your whole being stop speaking the grammar and the pronunciation of your original make-up in their pure and honest form. The pronunciation of it — which, like your fingerprint, is your own learned sound — becomes so adapted that it falls strangely on the ears of your heart.

It happens very easily and entirely without your noticing it, somewhere in among the marrying, the bringing up of children and the working. Because our mouth has a language, but our heart also has a language. And unless others understand the language of your heart, there is comfortless confusion every time a language clash derails hearts. For the sake of survival, you replace yourself with the dialect of the surroundings or of the climate.

It is a revelation the day you notice how far off course this dialect has taken you. The lack of certain aspects in your own personality starts to catch your attention — whatever the catalyst may have been. If you are bold enough, this rediscovery of yourself spurs you, like the layers of an onion, to get rid first of the outermost husky leaves, until you come out at the sensitive, truest core of who you are. You get rid of everything that is the sound of someone else's accent upon your own personality. Time's hourglass runs like water through your memories while you cut the trail of this dialect. You become a speck, a strange participant on the stage of your own story. Your own language buried under pages and chapters that you did not write yourself, and whose length you sometimes did not decide either. The dialect into which you had been turning lies, like a plot, entwined through the thread of your story-line. As at a funeral, you must decide from what all you are willing to take your leave. Your book can rather be thinner, provided the sum-total of the real you remains intact.

This editing of yourself is a process. Until you pick up all the false sounds, your book stays closed, still not ready to be published. A meaningful challenge for anyone caught up inside the glamour-system where the opinion of most people is a repetition of that of the masses — prepared in the dialect of everyone who comes off a factory line.

The more you manage to arrive home inside the sum-total of your whole frame of reference, the more you belong to yourself. That is what the refining of our emotions ensures, when they process the sediment of wrong decisions into a pure destiny. An organic homecoming where our spiritual DNA (our soul) recognises the core of its own being in the truest expression of our loving.

Groete Amanda Kreitzer