What do you do with an idea, an idea in your own consciousness, that does not belong to you. It’s there, the thought, not yours; it presses with urgency, urgently pressing inwards or out. No stranger to whisper it in to your ear, only you, only this Thing that isn’t yours suddenly there. Is that what they call Voices?
I hear voices voices, the kind you can hear, sometimes. But they are benign creatures. The radiator, he is mostly a glossolaliac; I know him well, he has good intentions. Visions are similar, not as kindhearted, but pleasant nonetheless. Mostly eyes that look back at mine or images of She or another. She frightens me, but I can dismiss her because She does not have my best interest at heart. The times that scare me, the times that truly scare me, are the times that those messages appear without hearing without vision, without the pomp and circumstance. It is internal, from under my skin; circumventing the ears and eyes, even if all this is hallucination, cheating it’s cheating. That idea, an idea in my own consciousness, that does not belong to me. That idea, those ideas, stay. It’s those Voices that haunt me.
eumenide, one day 