are you there?

sometimes i feel like i'm talking to myself. it could be because most of my voices in my head never actually have a voice; they're usually smacked across the cheek as soon as they express opinions. seriously. they're that disruptive, uncouth, unpleasant...

i wonder what it would be like if my ego, my duchess, the One Main Chick in charge weren't so damn reactionary. what if she listened to them -- even the ugly, uncool, and mean ones? listening doesn't necessarily mean agreeing, so i wonder if they were allowed to be heard more often, given the chance to be understood, if they wouldn't be some damn sneaky in my unconsious. i guess that's so pedestrian, my unprofessional description of repression. but that's what it is: some voices are too ugly, too tricky, too *right* (sometimes) to be heard. so the duchess pushes those little creatures down down, says you aren't good enough to come out here in the day. so they don't. instead they drop deep down, into my spine, into my clitoris. they sit there and wait and wait and wait. then one day, while i'm washing dishes or paying bills or kissing someone, they come out and make me cry or laugh or get mad when i don't even think i feel mad. and then, since i refused to listen to them for *so long*, they refuse to tell me what's wrong now. so instead i just feel this thing, this sadness, this anger, and i cannot see why. and the more i ask, the more the gremlins dig in. the more they remind me: you don't want to know. you told us you don't want to know. the duchess does not want to know.

so then i go out into the world and i project it all out there. i say, no one wants to listen to me. so i get a blog and i write in it and i wait and wait for nothing to happen, to prove to me that no one is listening. and i write, sometimes, i write poems or stories or i take pictures. i *communicate*. and i wait. i wait and wait for a response.