He moved from one room to
the next. He walked to try to get away from what was coming from within. He
knew it was irrational to believe that he could remove himself from the voice
and the thoughts that ran through his head … but still, he walked. He did not
want to sit, alone, with the voice or the insanity of his musings. He put his
hands to his hears and the voice became louder. He wanted to scream but that
would disturb her; that was the last thing he wanted to do. He did not want to
worry her with something that he did not understand.
He felt like he was going
crazy. He needed some help, he knew he did. However, what would he say? That he
was hearing a lone voice that was speaking things that were unintelligible. He
could not make out what was being said, so he could not communicate it to
anyone. It wasn’t as if the voice was speaking a foreign language. He felt like
he should understand, but the meaning of the words were just out of his reach.
He wanted to hush the voice, yet he did not know what to say. He was silenced.
The voice silenced him. It seemed as if the voice had always been silencing
him. The voice never wanted to hear him, didn’t care what he had to say or what
he wanted. It was self-serving. It only wanted to be heard – heard, but not
understood. It was an oxymoron that he had come to expect from the voice.
What was he going to do
with the enormity of the situation? He entertained the notion that he was
dealing with some form of mania, yet he did not know from whence it derived. He
was still functioning on his job and in his relationship. He was maintaining a
semblance of normalcy that he did not feel. He was afraid all of the time, it
seemed. Ever since the dream invaded his waking moments, he was fearful that
someone would find out and he would lose everything. He had so much to lose.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, panic was being conceived. He felt like he
had lost so much, somewhere – at some time that he could not quite put his
finger on.
