Voices

Posted on November 9, 2013 in Anxiety Bipolar Disorder Frustration PTSD

The mind is not only its own place, but its own population. I dream of many faces. The breakup of sleep shatters them. They lose their bodies, but I am hectored by their voices at all hours. These are your failures, they say as if their task were to humiliate me so that I may not enjoy any of the peace of mind that comes with humility. I stumble as they scratch my eye with the light of their taunts. When they call out, I lose my focus on the landscape or the interior in which I am situated. An insult might crash into my brain as I am hiking a sinuous trail, tumbling my consciousness into a different dimension: I stop, stamp my feet, and try to feel the grit beneath my shoes that tells me where I am.