Voice 1: How long do you intend to leave your baggage sealed and unattended?
Conscious: If my existence is indeed the oubilette of a seldom-petitioned deity perhaps I will remain here, at this terminal, until my very bones pollinate the earth on which I stand.
Voice 2: There is an elegance in scripture but that does not excuse its improvisations.
Conscious: What excuse can I employ then? Every crutch I have ever leaned on has proven unsteady. I am to blame and yet I do not know how to assume responsibility, only guilt.
Voice 1: Blood or syrup? Which is sweeter? Man is indebted to failure. How else can one measure success?
Conscious: There are dents in my heart and evacuations in my shawl. I am imperfect and yet even still I deny the excitement of those seams and ripples. Better that I should paddle myself than accept the monstrosity that is love and sexuality. Isolation is unnatural and yet it is my prerogative to bare.
Voice 2: There are canals for which the destination cannot be known until arrival, an aorta is such a passage. The heart cannot rationalize its impulses. The mind is clouded by preference. The Devil is always articulate but would you stake your soul on his counsel?
I went in a very unusual direction. There are so many voices inside my head (inside any head I imagine), often competing and contradictory points of view. The older I get the more time I spend exploring the grey zones of morality, of existence, the more time I spend searching, desperate for clarity, for an answer, for a solution, for a cause only to find that all we have our choices and those choices can lead us in directions we can’t even begin to fathom!