🛑 What the Hell Are These Voices in My Head? 🌀🎭🕳️

🛑 What the Hell Are These Voices in My Head? 🌀🎭🕳️

🎭 There came a day, not marked by omen or moon-sign, when the sky itself turned blank as parchment, refusing its ancient duty to bear witness. I stood, weary and unarmored, over a basin of soiled water. The warmth had long fled it—like memory from an aging king—and it clung to my skin like the breath of the dead.

Then, without wind or herald, the world began to murmur.

Not in words as men know them—but in riddled echoes, half-formed and coiled like smoke from a blackwood fire.

The faucet faltered with a metallic stammer. The cupboards sang low like mourning stones. My spine, unbidden, straightened as if saluting a forgotten captain from wars my lineage dared not name.

A whisper:

“Break the dish. Leave the life. Let it burn.”

I did not. But the hand trembled—acknowledging the power of the spell.

These voices were no foreign shade. They were kin of a crueler kind—familiar as frost in the cradle of spring. They had lived within me, disguised in duty and denial, biding their time like wraiths in the rafters.

One voice hissed through the halls of my mind:

“Scorch the earth. Only in ruin will they recognize your flame.”

Another, softer but no less perilous:

“Vanish. Let your silence be the echo that haunts their peace.”

And still, I nodded. Smiled, even. Masked the storm. Took the refuse to the gate like one not haunted by the face staring back from puddles and panes.

It was not until the third morning past—when the sun rose quiet as judgment and I sat, shivering before the stone temple of schooling—that the silence overtook me.

No sword had pierced me. No foe had struck.

Only a thousand small betrayals, uncounted and unnamed, that left me hollow.

The voices, I then knew, were not devils nor angels. They were forgework—shaped by moments when the world looked away. Stories twisted in the crucible of neglect.

One voice was born the day I was passed over, though I had waited. Another bared fangs when I traded truth for peace. Even the bold ones—those cloaked in pride—were but frightened children howling in armor.

I did not vanquish them.

I beheld them.

I knelt in the grey hours before dawn, no charm or incantation at hand. Only breath. Only stillness.

And they came.

The rage—wild-eyed and dripping with soot.
The shame—bent like an elder, clutching its chains.
And then… her.

The child. Barefoot. Clutching not a sword, but a broken crayon—like both weapon and offering.

She spoke nothing. But I heard her.

She was the first voice.
The buried queen.
The true one.

The girl I cast beneath performance and politeness, beneath titles and tears. She, who had never wanted the war.

And I took her hand.

The spell cracked.

The masks fell like autumn’s dead leaves.
The voices hushed—not silenced, but seen.
And that alone was enough to still their wrath.

What madness is this?

Not madness at all.
Not ascension.
But something older—

A spiral carved into the stone of soul, winding back to the hearth fire I once fled.

I am not falling.

I am returning.

Through the ruins, through the roars.
To the voice that never raised its cry.
The one that waited.
Always.
Me.

🌐 Drop a 🌐 if you’ve heard the whisper beneath the war.

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/CkDNs8BQ43jcgwCz
https://www.facebook.com/share/p/WnYuZog36E2P4YHy

#VoicesInMyHead
#EgoUnraveled
#HealingThroughWitness
#NotCrazyJustWaking
#SacredSpiral
#ChildWithinSpeaks
#DarkNightOfTheSelf
#TheWatcherAwakens
#StillVoiceRising
#BreakThePerformance
#TheMaskFalls
#TraumaAlchemy
#SoulUnderTheNoise
#WhatTheHellAmIGoingThrough
#InnerRevolution
#CompassionForTheMonster
#FollowNotFall
#TheVoiceNotVoices
#CrayonAndCourage
#WitchingHourWisdom
#ReturnToTheRoot
#YouAreNotYourThoughts
#SacredDescent
#InitiatedBySilence
#Shadowlight

Love, Freedom, Peace
🧘‍♂️
🕳