1. I read words silently in a voice that was not mine. I either did not understand these words or misunderstood them, because I did not feel. I rewrote for the wrong reasons. I spoke, and the words came out wrong.
2. I welcomed noises - for anything other than that was confusing. Noises were easier; noises numbed. At that point in my life, and from then on, when noises overpowered, bringing the outside inward required consciousness. And I, by some higher-order chance, wasn’t truly conscious.
3. My inner voice -
in form: prose-prone, rhythmic;
in purpose: self-healing, concluding;
in nature: calmer than me, more knowing of me, prophetic -
is the one thing that has remained constant.
I have rejected many things about myself. Yet whenever I hear it - this voice of mine that stays - I’m at one with me.
4. This voice of mine is at one with itself.
It never speaks for me as anybody’s anything.
It speaks for me only as me.
