The voices were numerous and unaccountable.
There was no music in their cadence. The spirits spoke of nothing; they spoke of dreams and they spoke of the lives they thought they were still living. They had gone mad, here, in this place. Madness didn’t become a person, but sometimes a person couldn’t help it. A person can’t choose what ails them or what heals them. Sometimes a person’s ailments cannot be fixed by them alone; sometimes, they have to choose to be strong to overcome their demons, and to move on from them.
Strength was waning in the musician; the days and nights were not distinguished in the shadow realm. Sleep and waking were the same thing. It was always both, but it was also neither. It was all a dream, and yet it was all real.
When a man knows he is dreaming he does nothing about it. When he knows he is dreaming, there is not much to be done. The happenings in the dream weren’t real, so what reason had he to do anything? It was only when subconscious suggestions were planted that the dreams started to take effect.
Softness. Admonishment. Hurt. Fire. Unfamiliarity.
That’s what got him.
The voice that he did not recognise. How could he have voices in his head that he did not recognise?
Because they weren’t real, none of them. They were all imagined. But if they were imagined, they still served the same purpose. They still planted the seeds. Somewhere within the depths of his mad inaction there was a stirring voice; a reared defense of his own self.
Come home.
Was he not at home? What was he doing, if he was not at home?
I miss you.
What is there to miss? I have gone nowhere. Have I? Where am I?
If you have no intention…
Intent. To be intention there had to be consciousness. There had to be awareness of one’s own surroundings, of one’s past, present, and future. There had to be moves lined up on a table, pieces to move and place. Intention.
Where was Lancaster’s intention? It was asleep, dreaming, like the rest of him.
...you think no one will care?
No. Yes. No. It wasn’t about care, was it? Something in him stirred; the shadowed body that he had become twisted, rolled over, lacked the heaviness he thought it ought to be made of. Why would I think no one cares? he argued, within his own mind. No, he didn’t think that. Sometimes, yes, but it didn’t register. There were things that he had done, and he did not ever think that he deserved care. A lack of care for him would not keep him away from the world. Whatever loneliness he suffered, it was his own doing. Perhaps, no. It’s about need, he told himself, slowly. But it wasn’t a thought that he followed through.
The voices were thick, and fast. They were familiar and unfamiliar. They were angry, they were hurt. They woke something inside of him; a spark of consciousness, a desire to wake.
Wake up.
But he was stuck in a dream from which he could not wake. Ahead, there was fire. Fire, everywhere. Within it, the faces that belonged to the voices in his head. And they were screaming. He stepped into the fire -
And then it was gone.
Home, with Pi, but it wasn’t home. No, he recognised that it was not home, because the walls were burnt, charred, falling down. The bed was crisp and she acted as if nothing was wrong, but it was not home. No, he knew that he was dreaming, now. He knew - he had to wake up. There was a dagger in the rubble. He bent, picked it up, slammed the blade into his palm -
He woke up. The sun was bright. In front of him, waves crashed against the shore. The Gold Coast - Christmas, with his mother. She was laughing at one of his stupid jokes. The sun was bright, and warm -
He woke up. Irene was there, at the bar. Her throat was bare, her eyes lovely. But then her flesh started to rot, to peel, to fall away.
He woke up. He woke up. The shadows swarmed, the darkness surrounding him. He needed breath. He needed life. But he couldn’t breathe. There were no lungs to draw breath, no air, no atmosphere. Fingers clutched at dirt that was not there, the building he’d crawled into was gone. The walls were gone. Now there was only grass. But it wasn’t grass. It was death.
Again, he rolled over. On his knees, he couldn’t stand. Panic struck at him from all angles.
He need to get out. He couldn’t. He screamed.
”I … can’t breathe!”
There was no music in their cadence. The spirits spoke of nothing; they spoke of dreams and they spoke of the lives they thought they were still living. They had gone mad, here, in this place. Madness didn’t become a person, but sometimes a person couldn’t help it. A person can’t choose what ails them or what heals them. Sometimes a person’s ailments cannot be fixed by them alone; sometimes, they have to choose to be strong to overcome their demons, and to move on from them.
Strength was waning in the musician; the days and nights were not distinguished in the shadow realm. Sleep and waking were the same thing. It was always both, but it was also neither. It was all a dream, and yet it was all real.
When a man knows he is dreaming he does nothing about it. When he knows he is dreaming, there is not much to be done. The happenings in the dream weren’t real, so what reason had he to do anything? It was only when subconscious suggestions were planted that the dreams started to take effect.
Softness. Admonishment. Hurt. Fire. Unfamiliarity.
That’s what got him.
The voice that he did not recognise. How could he have voices in his head that he did not recognise?
Because they weren’t real, none of them. They were all imagined. But if they were imagined, they still served the same purpose. They still planted the seeds. Somewhere within the depths of his mad inaction there was a stirring voice; a reared defense of his own self.
Come home.
Was he not at home? What was he doing, if he was not at home?
I miss you.
What is there to miss? I have gone nowhere. Have I? Where am I?
If you have no intention…
Intent. To be intention there had to be consciousness. There had to be awareness of one’s own surroundings, of one’s past, present, and future. There had to be moves lined up on a table, pieces to move and place. Intention.
Where was Lancaster’s intention? It was asleep, dreaming, like the rest of him.
...you think no one will care?
No. Yes. No. It wasn’t about care, was it? Something in him stirred; the shadowed body that he had become twisted, rolled over, lacked the heaviness he thought it ought to be made of. Why would I think no one cares? he argued, within his own mind. No, he didn’t think that. Sometimes, yes, but it didn’t register. There were things that he had done, and he did not ever think that he deserved care. A lack of care for him would not keep him away from the world. Whatever loneliness he suffered, it was his own doing. Perhaps, no. It’s about need, he told himself, slowly. But it wasn’t a thought that he followed through.
The voices were thick, and fast. They were familiar and unfamiliar. They were angry, they were hurt. They woke something inside of him; a spark of consciousness, a desire to wake.
Wake up.
But he was stuck in a dream from which he could not wake. Ahead, there was fire. Fire, everywhere. Within it, the faces that belonged to the voices in his head. And they were screaming. He stepped into the fire -
And then it was gone.
Home, with Pi, but it wasn’t home. No, he recognised that it was not home, because the walls were burnt, charred, falling down. The bed was crisp and she acted as if nothing was wrong, but it was not home. No, he knew that he was dreaming, now. He knew - he had to wake up. There was a dagger in the rubble. He bent, picked it up, slammed the blade into his palm -
He woke up. The sun was bright. In front of him, waves crashed against the shore. The Gold Coast - Christmas, with his mother. She was laughing at one of his stupid jokes. The sun was bright, and warm -
He woke up. Irene was there, at the bar. Her throat was bare, her eyes lovely. But then her flesh started to rot, to peel, to fall away.
He woke up. He woke up. The shadows swarmed, the darkness surrounding him. He needed breath. He needed life. But he couldn’t breathe. There were no lungs to draw breath, no air, no atmosphere. Fingers clutched at dirt that was not there, the building he’d crawled into was gone. The walls were gone. Now there was only grass. But it wasn’t grass. It was death.
Again, he rolled over. On his knees, he couldn’t stand. Panic struck at him from all angles.
He need to get out. He couldn’t. He screamed.
”I … can’t breathe!”
