I Actually Dislike It

I actually dislike it. The process isn’t pleasurable at all; there is too much of everything. The coppery, sickly-sweet smell, the warmth of it, the screams that pierce my ears, everything. But I keep doing it. I have to.

The whispers weren’t too bad at first. Not too pushy, just more of a hyperaware conscience. But that changed one day. Without warning they got insistent, more frequent. There was no blocking them out - especially once they realized I’d begun to listen to them in an attempt to gain a few minutes of silence.

As they demanded more and more, I realized what was happening. I tried to drown it all out with drugs, music, sleep, anything and everything – but none of it worked. They got worse.

After a few months, I grew pretty accustomed to them. As long as I humoured some of their requests, they mostly stayed at bay. Sometimes I could almost ignore it as background noise, if I focused on not hearing the whispers, urgent and strained.

But eventually, they won out. The bad in people always seems to, doesn’t it?

So it’s not really my fault. I wish you could be in my shoes for one day, one hour even. I wish you could hear what they whisper in my ear, in my head; wish you could experience their blinding power and clarity.

Maybe then you wouldn’t have so much fear in your eyes. Maybe you could even forgive me, or at least realize I’m not doing it because I want to, or something sick like that.

I actually dislike it. But I keep doing it. I have to.

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Credits to: Sihira