examology

I've always had conversations in my head. As far as i know, its a common thing. The battle between the voice of reason and desire etc. Only thing is i just found out that it isnt normal to have about 7 voices at one go.

I grew up with the voices. How was i supossed to know that there were too many Farahs in my head?

Now, they wont go away.

They've found their own little crevices inside my mind, soul and body to manifest their own hopes and dreams. And i have to be objective and fair and let each of them have their own air time. Its the only right thing to do.

I'm not joking by the way.
They are there.
I just thought you guys should know that they exist.

(currently untittled)

I'm playing with candy ideas floating on

a cloud of snow in my mind.

I touch these glittering orbs of genius

and draw them out, honey-coated, sticky

and sweet.

They are glassy, malleable and

i attempt to manipulate them to suit

my whims and fancies.

They then grow long tentacles

reaching out to infinite possibility,

entangling themselves in a mess

like

freshly cokked spaghetti.

Scared, i fling them into the recesses

of my mind to be tugged at on a

later date.

With my pinky, i probe into

a corner of my imagination and find

another

creamy, cushioned, soft idea.

It smells like daffodills and lavenders

baked in the sun.

I squeeze it till it starts to

bleed

butterfilies that cloud my vision.

Distracted, i toss my fury ball of ideas

and then,

chase my rainbow-coloured,

dew-dropped, mango and oriental patterned

butterflies up

up

up

Mount Everest to reach

orange New Mexico

which reeks of diesel,

oil, lust and crime.

I cannot compartmentalise, organize,

label and chart my ideas in straight, pedantic

rows of sux and fours like you want me to.

You say its ideal but its unreal.

Just like my ideas.

Unreal. Imaginative. Infinite. and Wild.

They grow atop cherry trees

and orange bushes and slither

underneath persian rugs,

clinging onto aeroplanes that

swim

in the sea and

dive

into vast, expanssive desserts

only to find more places to explore,

uncontrollably,

unguidedly,

in a

frenzied,

perfect,

mess.

They are not fixed or stable.

They are volatile and excitable.

So please, dont ask me to silence

these peacocks which

fly

and

swim

and

cry

because i cannot silence what i cannot

control

and because caging my ideas

would mean

a sky

empty,

a sound

lost,

a mesage

unwritten

and Me

reduced to

another prototype in this static world of

black and white.

PS: they should have been borken up into stanzas but blogger is being a biatch. Jessica?

Back to Chem,

Much love,

Farah