The voices started in again. One by one they creep towards their destination, with little tidbits of information. Unsolicited. They don’t care. Like silent whispers that scream from across the room.
I’ve always seen my mind like a room, the corners dark, the cracks in the walls never ending pits to nowhere. We bounce from wall to wall, from corner to crack to ceiling to wall. How can I be so many places at once. I try to ignore them, their whispers, their clawing at the remanence of my happiness.
It was such a large hill to climb, I had no idea where the top was, but I climbed like a fool, knowing happiness laid just above the rim. I got to enjoy the view some, golden in color, blue as far as the eye could see. No green, no hazel, no black of night. Shaded by trees of leaves that swayed in sound of my heart. I got to see the top. Be there with it, for a moment. Then the voices came a creep’n. One step, two step, three step four, here we come knock’n on your door! They come in on a whim and swim about. I ignore them, they persist, I hide in a corner, but the room is small and my toes can be seen.
We fight!
We fight with one another but our friends join in and soon I’m out numbered. I roll over in defeat, ‘please, take your turns’ I say. But they don’t. They come in as one and spread out to my flanks, they breed like rabbits and consume like fire. It’s like someone is spinning the dial on an old car stereo and there are too many voices to pick out just one, yet I know each point that is being made. I could hide in a crack, a crack so small only one voice can fit with me, one of the uglier ones I’m sure. I could go back to the corner but they know my room to well. Breathing in deep admiring the paint, more red but a hint of orange. It’s hot in here. You would think it’d be cold as I’m dissected over dinner, although I do not eat. It goes in and falls right out my gut onto the floor, making a horrible mess.
I wait, I’m waiting them out.
I am standing in the line of fire wondering why people say death is cold, it’s not, it’s familiar. It’s warm, it’s the sun on my back, my smiles as a little boy, it’s their thoughts in my skin. It’s everything I never wanted it be. The voices will bleed me and when there is nothing left they will recede like the tide, slow, methodical.
And I am the lucky one, the fortunate, the blessed, the special. I am next Wednesday’s leftovers. I am the moment that never returns. I am the crazy. I am the tears that never came, the never ending crack. I’m everything you never wanted to be.
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