Do it, jump.

My tongue tastes like decaying gin, or perhaps it's my entire mouth, but it is my tongue that fills this void and that is what I taste. As the trian is rushing toward its stop, my stop, I wonder if I'm drunk. The voices are silent about this point, and I lift my face and try to make sense of the visual input that the platform is sending in all direction. Fierce and spasmatic blobs of colour and flashes of reality much clearer and more desirable than my own. At least thats what it looks like from my side of the poster, I suspect the grass on their side is just as dull as my own. But I have little time to notice the intricacies of underground adverts as the crowd sweeps me towards the exit and the other underground lines. I almost wish I could have stayed dreamily on the train I had just stepped off of as it was so easy to maintain a blank stare and disassociate from the other riders, no moving or strange glances for it was much to late for pondering the lives of the carriage. It was a time for resting and reflection, only a few rules needed to be observed.



The first and possibly hardest, had I not so much practice was the ability to ignore and not respond to the voices. The most helpful of them always warned me of the possible consequences of giving up my act of placid indifference to the reality of the world. This was the only point that none of the voices contested for they all knew that my survival was their survival and so they remained silent during these warnings. Though one of them, the most intriguing found the stillness almost suffocating and was so strong I'd feel the voices emotions gliding through the air as it wriggled and it caught hold of my curiosity. This was the same voice that made silence and emotionless observation the most difficult as it always showed off the interesting experiences that were all possible with just a mere step and a sheer force of will power. It often asked me if I wondered what it felt to be crushed beneath the wheel of a train or struck by the front of a car. I never acted upon its suggestions, but I did wonder what those deaths would feel like. How much pain they would be? This I always had lingering in the back of my mind, and perhaps this suicidal voice would have driven others to insanity but it merely made me tickle with an unpleasant amount of intrigue. Perhaps having this voice at all made me crazy, I don't know, I only know one of the other voices warned me to never mention what I heard to anyone. And this I knew was more important than any other rule.



I had come into conflict with my possible difference in thinking earlier today as I had been forced to admit my anxiety to my doctor. And much to my surprise I was given a little questionaire, less than a page, to find out my mental health. I fail to see how less than a page could determine anyones mental status, let alone mine. I've always had voices, I have free will and I know the voices to be shades and aspects of my own personality, so how is it insanity? But I was pleased to find there were no questions about voices or impulses, I hate lying, it only makes me feel sick. Ommission may be a form of lying, but at least it's never made me feel worried, and I suspect that not telling people the full truth is better for them and for me. I was thinking all this while I sat down on the train, one of the voices was commanding my actions to get back home and I let it. Sometimes I can't tell who is a voice and who is the person that once inhabited my body. I feel like I am the root simply because I have nothing to say, I have all the others to think and speak and entertain me. It's like having a great, big, flat screen TV thats broken and jumps aimlessly from channel to channel, yet you let it because you haven't the effort to try and act yourself. I always speak and act on important things, but traveling home isn't one of them and I tune out before my voices only exhibit the control of denying the dangerous ones their will to leap in front of busses and rob people, they are always the most interesting but I know they would be the end of my remote peace in the middle of London.



I climb the steps toward the exit of my station with the repetition of a robot, I must be drunk. Antibiotics, I just started them today and I must not be used to them. Though with the frequency that I've been on antibiotics you'd think I'd function better on them than off. Drat not another bus for seven minutes, this means I'll be listening to the most persuasive arguments to jump in fornt of the speeding cars. I do not wish to die, and even though I'm sure I'd regret it, I find it too interesting to turn my eyes away from one of the voices showing my splashing red across the pavement as car after car rolls over my body, the warmth of my life blood and the venomous cold of the pavement surging towards my death. And then red, real red, the bus rolls towards me and I move quickly towards the end of the scene and the edge of the pavement. I climb into the bus, I'm not depressed, I wouldn't ever listen to that voice, well not yet anyways. Perhaps when I'm old I shall find out the answer to this aching question. Thank goodness the questionaire doesn't have a question about voices, I do hate to lie.