I don’t speak of myself using a second or third person narrative. When my heard voices do it it, the decentring will muddy the waters of stable apperception.  If this experience is subsumable as substance then in a ploy for connection, duration is a swamp. Swamp democracy and swamp fiction. Plotting myself as a geography my variegated workings holds likelihoods of experiential malaria as existential nausea. Here I bathe in clear lakes in writing. Is there a corollary to hearing voices to the act of writing?

Heard voices are a decentred intrusion. Allied hallucinations generate layers and junctures, imposing or tenuous but most definitely involved as living quarters diffeomorphism. As such when I discuss with health professionals that though I may be distressed and laboured in communication it’s apparent that I still make sense. Still possessing of grammatic form and function. Still with a modicum of logic in many of my narratives. I seek truth here as process and ontology. Within conceptual skill or with speculative crystals and production. Here art, here text, here music, here disentangled flora.

The opaque body sparkles with rough hold to speech. It may communicate, it may mean anything, it may be embarrassingly insistent and incorrect. Speech and murmur to slumber may too be an adaptogen. Words as herbs only, just to get by, raise myself from rest, to open a door and move my frame which however it creaks, speech will be a splint, stretcher, tight bandaging.

Van Gogh nursery 1882 The Hague