Voice

It lingers in sleepless nights long after the body that housed it is gone. It pulls that ache out from deep inside and rips straight through me. It's the one thing I miss most.

Why is your voice so pretty, I just want to get high and listen to you talk about shit forever, is that wrong? Is that weird, or creepy? I don't know, I don't know, I am a tone theorist, you know? I don't get it, there's something about it! The way you talk, your voice. It's beautiful, it's musical. I want to hear it everyday.

I can hear a voice in my head speaking on the oddest of topics ranging from the sixties to the my own life. It is odd to think that the voices of those things which are written down can reverberate through time as classified documents, lost pages of journals, books, articles and even online blogs. I've been reading more recently due to an abundance of time I've got on my hands and limited to no transportation. One thing I've looked more into recently is the voice of one Hunter S. Thompson.

I've read on him before, I've watched movie adaptions of his books, and recently watched documentaries on his life and works. I wonder if I would have enjoyed his works if I were raised in the sixties with the type of family I have only to recall that I would have blossomed as I have and it doesn't mater anyway as I am in this time with this life and enjoy his writings now. He acts as a place holder within my mind, his some how soothing voice ringing through the clutter to bring an ethereal serenity to my other wise lost mind.

I feel as though I would have enjoyed the man greatly if I'd had the opportunity to have ever met him. His general character and actions are relatively familiar to me in my various interactions with other folk. The difference lying mainly in the vocalization of the thoughts that he has, the extremes he takes. I suppose that's how it works though. My friend and acquaintances have helped to shape my mind greatly from the naive young lady I was when I left the next of my parent's hole in the wall. Imagine the heights that Gonzo would have brought me to. I would imagine that I would have gone into my initial thought for work rather than my secondary and more practical. I enjoy the work I study but I feel I would have loved the alternative.

In the end, the drugs, the alcohol, the people make the journey. The voices that are held in my memory guide my thoughts through the confusion presented by my core often creates to lend a bit of clarity, even if it is an insane notion or idea the voice presents ...good times I say.... the more experiences the beter

Compared the other voices I’ve felt the half-inexplicable urge to drink, yours is a pale pianist's hand, dry like skin an hour out of water, rubbing against white silk with a matte black background. It's bled of color and soothing like an opiate overdose.

I've realized that every person I've fallen for since the first and last time I had my heart utterly broken had a warm gravel in the sunlight voice. Until you.