Of another mind

slapdashmonuments

Inspiration hits with a flash, stories written on the go. A rumble of laughter and the tale is heard only in echoes. The wind blows me in a new direction. Whom shall I visit next?


Our subconscious mind can be the most formidable foe. Facing fright, we fumble for fortification, rattle our rapiers and clamber for cover. Is this shadowy voice in charge, or just one more cog in our cognition?

The negative pronouncements careen against the ramparts of my brain, seeming to come from everywhere, another Orson Welles striding through Shanghai to kidnap my sense of self...of selves, rather. But which is the gun that can shoot straight among all these mirrors? A merer image can hardly be imagined, but the voice is not to be ignored. The conscious mind seems to be voice controlled now. One pane shatters, in an act of revelation as much as menace. The reflections show how divided my mental presence can become.

If more bullets fly, the distortion will increase. The echoes reverberate in manifold creases of sound until my own words cannot hope to pierce the thick, mordant layers of the stalker, the caller of shots.

As Orson Welles, so do my tears of dread. So Orson wills.

I'm obscured. Hidden.

Lorn.


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