It's an old trick. No matter where I am or what I'm doing, the voice, it whispers, "Is this what you want? Is this how you waste your time?" The voice promises wonder and fame and riches ... whatever it takes to get me turn away from what I'm doing, to get me to say, "Yes, that's right, I'll follow you. I'll do what you want because I want it too."
If I'm lucky I can convince the voice to leave me alone for small periods of time. I can make it go on vacation. I've never met anyone so dedicated to the job as the voice. It doesn't sleep or eat or take breaks. It doesn't belong to a union. It perches, patiently in the curve of my ear, it lifts away a lock of hair, and it whispers non-stop about the color of my neighbor's carpet and the hilarity of compound interest.
The voice knows everything, but it specializes in the 3 g's: guilt, greed, and grief (with a minor in Goretex and Gormenghast.)
The voice is the ember you keep safe. It is the mind picture of a perfect place, a perfect moment, a study in reaching but not achieving. The voice is a bridge between yesterday and tomorrow. It is the promise of treasure. It is the solitary ache of self-awareness in a room full of laughing, spitting people -- no liquor in sight. Lastly, the voice is bullshit, pure and compact in form, aerodynamically erect, perched on my left shoulder, talking to no one.
No one in particular.
Tea is so high maintenance. My kingdom for a glass of chocolate milk.
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