Today, I decided to turn Nothing into words. It seems hard. Until it is not. My mind tells me things, things I dare not tell anyone, not a single soul. I would not tell you now. Maybe I already have.
It has been a long day, as most of them are. Walking back from the cafeteria is a futile exercise. I fly. It’s not fantasy, my dear reader, I walk. I find myself alone, and I feel good. Abysmally good. Sickeningly good.
I can hear things, things you can’t hear. No, not the birds, not the simmering sky, not the steaming coffee. I hear voices, inside my head, outside my head. Calm voices, spiralling round and round, slowly encircling me, and just like that, I am not alone anymore. I still feel alone, though, like a sunken ship in salty waters.
On occasions, these voices just listen to me, without a crackle. Sometimes, I can tell them to go away. And, yes, they listen to me. At other times, I can’t.
My head is buzzing with a hundred different things, sparking, firing, ricocheting, shooting. STOP. A rainbow of sensations. And my hands tremble as I tell you this. You’ll understand, won’t you? I hope so. And even if you don’t, I have the voices inside my head. Please make them go away. No, don’t. They have promised me their presence. Let them stay.
I meet people, one sleazy joke after another, one shy smile, one stolen glance, one avoided face, no, two, three, four. I evade them all. Sometimes, I wish I was invisible, then realise I already am.
A piece of paper. Scribbled. Flowing away in the wind. Leaves in a vortex, rustling. I grab it.
“Loops, circles, and infinity”, it says.
Loops. Circles. Infinity.
Numbers. Letters. Words.
I know you don’t want to read this, and, frankly, I never wrote this for you. I wrote this for me. And my voices. They told me to. Yes, I must do things they tell me to.
I walk in silence. Complete and utter on the outside. Void.
Inside, not so much.
I reach the lake. It’s dark. I can’t see anything, no lights, nothing. I can just hear the lapping water, gentle, harmonic. And for a second, the voices go away, and I cannot take it. Bring them back, please. They are here. It’s me and my voices, isn’t that beautiful?
My head feels like a grey stone. It is aching. It’s not the voices. It’s the incessant ballistics. One arrow after another, through the soft tissue of my brain, scathing, scarring. My muscles are twitching. I am writing on air. I will keep writing until it is time to burn out, flesh and bone and ash.
Lights. Colours. Green.
Paper. Me. Them. Us. You.
Thank you, reader. You have truly helped me. I can hear your voice. Inside my head.
This won’t stop, but I can stop.