Under The Rose

I hear voices. In my head.

Always have done. Its never been anything other than snatches of conversations. Like eavsdropping. I can tune in and out. Its like I'm insane. At least I don't think so.

Sometimes I'll hear the name of a place, sometimes exclaimed. Sometimes a voice will say that someone has died. But its never beeen a place I can get to, nor a person that I know.

Sometimes I think that if I knew how, I could tune into something or slmeone useful. But I have no idea how. Sometimes, I recognise the voices when others speak to me. Although not many of our paths ever cross. When they do, its never good.

I don't think, or I don't feel, that it is important to say much about my self. I don't think, or feel, that those things are what is important.

I have reduced myself. I have reduced myself to the extent that the hollownness I feel offers me some kind of elation.

So I am going to try make this quick. Otherwise I'll chicken out , and I wontt tell you what I want to say. I won't apologise for my language, it is my language after all.

'When I was alone, this is what it was like.'

I always felt that talking about it wouuld somehow 'break the spell'. Conversly, I am not, or at least I have no desire to be superstisious.

Candy, the curse of all my days.

The toast in the machine.

The cause without a rebel.

Reincarnation street.

The ingredients of sleep.

Why say its ironic when its not? When its intentional or just plain irrational? How is ironic any better? Why give an irrational, instinctive reaction or action to some false meaning or motivation?

I never understood why I was here, on this earth, being who I am, and why I am who I am. It occured to me, in the space between asleep and awake, that I am here because I offered little to no love, to the ones I should have loved the last time I was here.

I'm on Reincarnation Street, living Sub Rosa. Under The Rose