No, they don’t tell me to murder people. They don’t tell me to do anything. They’re very indistinct. I’d almost forgotten about them, yet they returned tonight. They sound to me much like a muffled radio newscast, or as if someone’s got a TV on in the other room at low volume. The voice is usually female. I assume this because of the higher pitch. Tonight, though, it was male, mid-twenties. I listened to him mumble for a bit after I’d finished brushing my teeth. I can never pick out words from the voices. I try to understand them, but I don’t. Which is good, I suppose. Come to think of it . . . this is the first I’ve heard the voices since I’d moved out here. Back home, I used to smack my clock radio to shut it off, but then realize the noise was in my head. The voice sounded just like the NPR newslady for the longest time. I just realized that I never hear the voices when I’m distressed. I only hear them when I’m happy. I guess that’s why hearing them is comforting to me. It’s a sense of familiarity. I can hear him now, mumbling away about something important that no one is really listening to. It’s a serious tone, not really monotone. It has the rise and fall of pitch as normal speech does, it’s just told very concrete, which is why I compare it to a newscast. It’s droned out to a soft buzz now, a bit like radio static.These voices have been there forever . . .
There is a fine line \ Between genius and madness. \ It is called timing.