A bit of me has gotten desperate and wants more than I might need. With nothing to see, I have my mind guide me through the times, sometimes comfortably. The mind that has stayed with me for the longest that is not a person, like has the rest of me.
The voice I have comforts me from the mind to beyond. Of course, I do know what it sounds like. It is not like that my hearing has been taken away by the forces of before and what might come after. I do not want to speak with how my mouth moves, as I do not want anyone else to hear me.
My privacy is not just me. It is my body, my mind, my functions that have me move my fingers. I do not know why, but I speak to myself from the mind to the hearing of my ears, and it sounds like another me, not Sister Yvonne, is next to me, inside the room.
She cares like Sister Yvonne. She, the voice, talks to me, asks about my day while talking about its day, and things else. What separates the other me from her is my state of mind and how it thinks, which is said through the words of the voice.
The voice that comes out from me says whatever it wants. It is good that it is nothing physical because it can not hurt me by saying the wrong things as it can not do or cause things without my release. It can say that there is no hope and that I will, for all that is after, staying in the place I am at now.
The voice takes up some part of the day, sometimes all of it when things are different. The rest of the day is me hearing that long run of silence I know well. Even the silence has noise and it rings to a high pitch.
Sounding like the voice in me is screeching and does not stop for the air it has left. I know that is not true, but it is what the mind has said it is like. My mind can not join something worse, it must stay separate from that to keep me from it.
Separate like Sister Yvonne with her type of kindness and having a better time to tell me all about it by making its type. It is better for her to at least tell me she is doing good than neither of us doing so because the biggest thing to me that matters, when she is in the discussion, is that she is happy. There is a control to it, where the voice might sound different than her, can sound deeper, sound higher, or sound slow or speak fast.
None of those things she could do without being asked. She gives her words clear and in one place. The voice sometimes repeats itself, getting stuck on words it has already finished, or invite their twins.
Their twins are like them, as what a twin is, and sound like two of the same person speaking to me. There can be even more out there to speak, like five or seven, more than two has been the most, some can say things differently from the others and no idea is the same.
I do not want to ignore everything. It might tell me something that helps me. I will wait until I think of the best ideas.
I do not want my mind without the voice to put down the mind that does have it. I will be patient and have it take its time to work its callings out. I do not want to take it away too quickly by letting the voiceless mind do so.
I do not want the harming tone of hurtful words and fragile dangers to take over the voice. I do not believe it is the truth. Or at the least, the one I want to hear.
It is things like this where I think about the I-do-not-wants and not the I-wants. I want a real person that has a picture to talk to me, feel, do all the things a person can, and tell me what it thinks should happen next when I am here, what will be better. Making the person myself with my mind does not do enough because it has no feel or sight.
I want the I-wants to be in a different variety. For now, the I-do-not-wants are separate from each other, but the I-wants are like they are related to one thing. Even I can not say exactly what it is.
Like I do want it, but later on, would I realize it is not worth it to want so much. Now, this is what the voice does. It follows me as I write, not as something bad, but as a helping friend who I do not want to betray me.
It is speaking to me as I read as well, and that is fine, as long as nothing bad comes from it. And it might do something about it to change and be it entirely. Like how it will not stop saying "want".
The word is starting to bother me. Here and there it goes again. I do not understand myself.
I do not understand why I must give all of this to the reader, why I explain so difficult, why it happens that I want to give out when I do not understand it myself. I might have done this so the reader can understand it themself, or that this is part of the desperation that I want to be heard. I am sorry, reader.
My words might not sound understandable to you. It does to me, and that is what myself has said to me. If you do not understand because that is how it is, then I am sorry for myself and for being myself, as that is who I am, the one I embrace.
—A.D; the eight of May