A rather important word from your author: Don't—please do not— talk to me about incomplete sentences and poor grammar. This is me trying out a new style—I'm going Faulkner on y'all, how treacherous!—and it's called giving the character a voice of her own.
To be honest, this style is more for the analytical writers/reviewers/readers on here. If you've been in a stylistic analysis class, this is probably a common style that you've been presented with and you've deciphered what the character is attempting to say. This isn't a difficult version of Dewey Dell's character. If you've read the book As I Lay Dying and you skimmed through the confusing parts to what was coherent, this is something you'll want to skip right through, also.
I am so loud.
There is so much noise all the time noise and sounds and din racket clamor clatter, clutter. There is so much noise. They talk and move and yell and cry, sob, choke. Sneezing so reckless that they just. I hear it all, and they think I am quiet. Every move I make compared to them, I'm a conflagration and they a small tongue of fire. They lick and lap and tickle ears with words I am I and just knock over everyone with the sounds I make, my silence my voice. I speak volumes.
To forgive is hard I think and maybe not what I meant to do but she knows and I know and we may never see the other except now and so I forgive what I shouldn't and remember it too and she knows like I do. Crackle under my feet because I am so loud, I wasn't like I am now, loud that it is my fault and now. I remember what I shouldn't and he is there and I think he might love me like I love him and we run. But I make too much noise and he is gone but I am alone and so I think I'm worse off when the men. I try to scream and maybe do a little until I can't because they take my voice from me and now I am so loud.
All of them talking over the noise. The silence of listening to voices, so many voices, and I pretend I don't hear them so the room fills with my sounds again and I know I am loud. My feet tread like they want to be listened to, they want President Snow to hear, every step heavy. Gnash my teeth and make a world of thunderous. Tap my fingers on silver trays and they know I think that I make so much more noise because.
They never stop talking, making their own noise. I used to think I was loud when I talked a lot but when I couldn't anymore I saw how silent I had been. Useless words, useless, no meaning just white sounds white whispers ways to speak that are not efficient like my noise now. I touch her fingers, squeeze her hand, and my breathing my heart is so loud I think she understands. It is okay. I am okay and she will be and forgive.
I speak volumes.
I am so loud.
Fin.
If it doesn't make sense, and if I remember my point later, feel free to ask me about it.
