Do you ever notice the voices when you write?
Not schizophrenic ones, may I say, hastily eyeing the room in case the men in white coats are waiting.
It’s the voices that invariably come out when you’ve committed something to the page – every essay a different echo, from a different part of your soul.
It’s strange that there can be so many parts to the same whole.
I suppose it’s different. The voices don’t speak to you, they don’t speak for you. They are just there; they are the sound of how you think. But there is something magical about how we tap into the creativity, how we find that voice, how we let it out.
It seems so close to madness all this talk of voices, but perhaps as writers we are just the first front in the brave frontier exploring mental health. As writers we often isolate ourselves by choice, we spend lots of time in fantasy worlds, creating and weaving dreams into reality, we lose touch with life as the people on our page create emotional responses in us. Perhaps there are others who are the same as us, but just somehow lack the ability to communicate as well. Perhaps some great shock, or some small bump could trap us in our heads, could pitch us into a war between our mouth-voice and our head-voices.
It sounds like a great story, something fictional that could be written, but I will not touch it today…today I am wary of fate…of the unfathomable that threw the dice of life and decreed it not to be my lot…
Thou shall skirt the borders of this creative place but shall not be consumed.
“Why me?” – is such a sorrowful question.
“Why not me?” is as unanswerable as the first.