A writer, a life, a city

Voice in my head

“Come,” the faceless voice whispers to me. “Keep walking. Come here. Come in here.”

I see an open door. I squint. Do I think I could see inside if I do? I only see darkness past the doorway, but I don’t have to see with my eyes what the room holds. I have been there. I used to be mayor of that room. I am the mayor of that place when I’m there. I do still visit it.

There’s a comfortable bed, best friend of my contemplative, a.k.a. depressive, self.

There is a desk and a chair. There’s a laptop on the desk. It is fully charged, but the charger is on stand-by.

There is a refrigerator. After all, I do need to drink, and maybe eat. There is also a kettle. Coffee – check. Brown sugar – check. Crockery and cutlery – check.

I take a step. The voice encourages me to take another. Is it smiling? It doesn’t even have a face.

I pause.

It tells me there’s nothing to worry about.

I take another step.

Then, I stop. “Wait!” I exclaim.

“What is it?” The voice is alarmed.

“I have to go to work,” I say casually. “I don’t even know what to wear, and it’s already nine o’clock.”

Sometimes, I welcome the mundane.

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