In her suicide note, Virginia Woolf writes about the voices in her head:
"...I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices..."
I always presumed the voices were auditory hallucinations, but there are other kinds of voices. Erica Jong writes about
"...the subtle beating of her mind against her mind..."
And then, there are the story tellers, whose fairytales of love and happiness and trials and tribulations bleed right through the invisible membrane between the real and the imagined. I live those stories and I feel those emotions.
And they are real.
Then when reality asserts itself the loss and grief leave me curled up in a ball.
Who is to say it wasn't those voices that killed her?
I tie the daydreams up and fill their mouths with rags while the sun is up. I let them out after dark, after I've gone to bed, because I'll be dammed if I won't allow myself a bedtime story.
But they get loose, maybe I wasn't quite motivated enough and the knots were little lose. And they come to take me away whispering at first.
Sometimes I shout them down, "stop!"
But after a moment the conversation starts up again, louder. At first it's just me working through a thought with myself and then, if it's a love story, I'm having a conversation with him. And it's lovely.
But of course, incredulity always wins in the end.
These are things he'll never say, moments that'll never happen. This love will never be made. Silenced, the world is colorless, empty and lonely.
And I'm ashamed because my life is a fantasy and I wish I had a stream and coat with pockets full of rocks and the courage to start walking.
Yours sincerely, The Evil Albino.