War of Voices

There are voices in my head,

Voices that fight, craving for my attention.

Voices that wait for me to be lured into their entangled mess,

And then take me either to a state of reminiscence,

Or to a brand new world

Where I don’t know anybody.

The pile at the foot of my bed intrigues me.

Like a conch that is sounded as a cue prior to a war,

My intrigue indicates the start of a fight between the voices;

And whoever transports me to its world, wins.

One of them pushes me; it nudges me

To find the smallest speck of familiarity.

It coerces me to look into myself,

To trigger the gazillion emotions related to those objects,

To let go of the reins of my bottled up memories,

To feel the slightest whiff of reminiscence.

I let go of myself; I let myself drown.

The memories of my life flood me,

And I remember; I remember a significant part of my life.

I let myself smile at the remembrance,

I cloak myself in the warm embrace of my memories.

The second voice stirs; it intends to strike.

A faint echo it was, when I was basking in the remembrance.

But now that I make myself aware of its existence,

The voice feels the need to make its presence felt.

It negates every word of the first voice; it tries to drag me away.

It tries to save me from drowning in my memories.

In my head, there starts a tug of war,

And there comes a time when both the voices are at par.

The first voice wavers, it loses its impact.

The second voice dominates,

And it drags me into an alien world.

The first voice becomes a faint echo;

It ceases its efforts to flood me with memories,

It dies.

I look around but I don’t remember anything.

It feels like the overdose of a drug; a drug that is meant to remove your pain.

But instead, it takes away the faintest trace of reminiscence.

I do not know myself anymore; I do not know where I am.

I walk out of the confinements of my room;

I gaze around helplessly for help.

I feel a firm grip on my arm;

A couple of men tug my arm.

I hear strange words;

‘Alzheimer’s’, ‘Dementia Unit’, ‘Ward Number 1176’.

I am led to a room;

It has a bed; it has things piled up at the foot of the bed.

The men leave me alone and shut me inside.

As I look through the pile,

A voice stirs; it intends to strike.

Now that I make myself aware of its existence,

The voice feels the need to make its presence felt.

And I let myself drown, again.




Image Source: Flickr.com


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