Saturday, April 16, 2005

Beautiful Cacophony

Me: this shell of flesh, pock-marked and scarred, the surprisingly resilient inner workings of which are slowly being poisoned by voluntarily absorbed toxins and the ever-present workings of time. This "person," this "being" who exists physically in every (as far as is known) dimension of the universe and whose coordinates are conveniently labeled "Cynical McBastard" is "me."

But beyond the physical, inside the skull of this creature, it is much harder to define what is "me." Inside there is an inharmonious chorus of voices.

Am I the voice who whispers that this shell is worthless, that its life is insignificant in a supposed "grand scheme"? Am I the quiet voice who loves and wants nothing more than to be loved back? Am I the voice who hangs itself everyday? Am I the voice who incomprehensibly shouts for reason and logic? Am I the convincing voice who is disappointed with this shell and demands change? Am I the voice who sleeps? Am I the laughing voice who finds humor in everything, especially the other voices? Am I the voice who sobs softly so that the other voices don't notice? Am I the voice who claims to remember a time before all the voices started speaking? Am I the voice that doesn't care?

Or am I the monotone voice that has somehow gained control of the mouth of this creature; the voice who, when asked what the other voices are saying, can't comprehend a single message in the beautiful cacophony, and so it lies and says that there are no other voices?

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