Archive
06/25/09 - (1)
Wouldn't Be
For more than forty-five years, He's been hearing voices, voices he never recognizes Until he transcribes and translates what they say,
Which he does, compulsively, Whenever they grow so loud, inside his stifled psyche, That his own ideas get silenced.
Only by recording the fugitive, hallucinatory voices Can he relieve the pain of their ubiquity. Left unchecked, they present consequential danger,
By distracting him from his necessary labors, Tasks that keep him on track, Sustain his thinking in sharp focus, his keen concentration.
But they're always with him, always there, Like the air itself, his fingerprints, death, Always within hearing range of his intuition, imagination,
Not begging him to expunge them Nor even indulge their obtrusiveness, But rather set them free, to be themselves,
As though he were an omnipotent prison warden Overseeing their incarceration. And he does release them, escort them out, one by one,
Always wondering if the last voice will be the last, If he'll be in a position to retire from his responsibilities, Close his notebook, never open it again,
And retreat to a refuge of quietude beyond his mind. But such hasn't been his destiny. And he knows that without the voices, he wouldn't be.
06/25/09 - (1)
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