Bentley Owen (beat_fan) wrote in serious_fiction,
Bentley Owen
beat_fan
serious_fiction

Voice in the Head

This is a piece I worte several months ago. I was attempting to do something mind-numbingly original, which is a very dangerous thing to do.


THE VOICE IN MY HEAD

There is a blue moon in the sky tonight. I am looking above myself at it. It is a very displeasing full moon; clouds cover it partially, it is dim in comparison to uneventful full moons.
I can not help but feel somewhat pathetic; I just sit here and stare at the sky and transmit my thoughts to you, even though you probably don’t really exist: you’re most likely just a creation of my confused and disconnected mind.
I am also indecisive: I can not decide if I’m right or wrong about whether you are, actually, an extension of myself, or something different, trapped in a terrible, sad, lonely place; trapped by a fiendish entity or a freakish accident. I can not decide where you came from either; I’m without a guess or assumption about your physical state (if you have one), about the amount of time been alive (or dead, if you really do exist, and if time is either relevant or calculable). I have decided that I you pity you regardless of whether or not you are of me; this means that I am still capable of caring for myself, and maybe that there is a part of myself that I still love.
I will move now. I will walk down the poorly moonlit path between the trees of the park where I sit. I am rising. Now I’m walking. I see what is around me. I see a man on a bridge over the river to my right. He is small to me. He might be looking for a reflection of the moon in the water. I am facing the river now and can not see the moon in the river. There is water beneath me, a sky above me, and the two don’t blend (either to deprive me of beauty or because I am in the wrong place; the man on the bridge might see it from his lovely, downward angle). I see an old woman that sits near the river, watching it, staring at its slow fluidity. I can not think of anything to say, or even anything to continue thinking about her. I see that poor, dull sidewalk beneath my feet; probably feeling cheated by the moon and its lack of light on this astrologically important night. I see walls at a distance: the walls of a car on the road to my left, a long wall separating sections of the road. Unless I close my eyes, I almost always see walls. When I really think about it, the insides of eyes are walls too; they protect me from the things I don’t want to see, make them go away. Why do we need so much protection?
I lay down on the grass near the river, next to a tree. The water is hypnotic, no matter what is or is not reflected in it. Sleep, simultaneously a thief of time and a revealer those things which we hide from ourselves, seems at the same time to be a means of escape for me and an evil magician waiting to show illusions and twisted shadows of half truths, although I know that sleep will show me the most absolute personal truths in existence. So when I cease to perceive my surroundings, to see with eyes, I will be both protected and scared, and you will be here with me, feeling it all. Why must you be here? I wish that I could simply wish you into another place.
But perhaps this is how it is meant to be, an unshakable companion in the midst of lost consciousness.
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