The Characters in my Head

There are physicists, philosophers and makers of great literature in my head. They bicker and go at one another like drug addicts, spitting out half formed theories in hope that someone will talk back and contradict them so that another opinion, a carefully knitted scarf that can be worn by them all, can be made from the fibres that came from odd dreamings and moments of boredom when a mind wandered to brilliance. They pull each others hair with contradictions and look up one anthers skirts by feverishly looking through notebooks with flimsy spines and scrawled notes hidden inside with the ideas of another mind. They scavenge for whims along a plain of guesses in hope that they might find one that meets the criteria they’re looking for.

And they write them down, in their notebooks and computers and they preach their worn down wisdoms, they make their case to the world as gadflies do to skin. They bite and poison with knowledge and mystery as their venom, they plant doubt in their pupils so that they will learn to question and doubt what they see even more than what they don’t.

Sometimes they talk to me, they yell at my consciousness and demand that I find things out for them, so that they are not left behind in the moving world. Sometimes they give me advice, they sit me down and point at all the objects in my mind, telling me why they are there and what they might be of use for.

They speak of an afterlife, and then a different afterlife, they speak of possible other realms and theories that I have put into their mouthes. They tell me about existence and humanity and the wavering nature of being alive, each sentence is a contradiction to the last until an opinion is formed. The contradictions are the foundations and the opinion is the house that I live in, the theories are the books.

They ask me questions and force out answers even though neither of us know the answer because we are the same. They paint pictures and read books over my shoulders, they nitpick at my choices and criticise me to no end, but for the better I change.

These are the characters in my head and they are almost always

yelling.

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All of the ineffables

Humans, human are made of strings.

Each string is a world, their endless infinity contained within the consciousness of one human. Our own minds continue endlessly inward, there is cosmos inside our heads and we barely know them. We have stars and monsters inside our minds and this is all because we can’t do anything entirely silent. Neurone activity is never-ending, we can’t exist without it.

We think so much, we never shut up. Maybe you, I don’t know, have a turntable inside your head and you listen to the same five songs over and over. Or you make stories, or characters, or perfect scenarios. Even when we sleep our consciousness find something to do.

These are the strings the strings that are all connected to all the other strings and they’re all different colours and they smell different and they prick memories from other strings and suddenly the universe and all those other universes and everything we know and everything we don’t know and all that is fathomable and unfathomable, any ineffable ineffability and all those infinities are packed inside your head and everyone else’s head and beyond just because you can think it; unconsciously or otherwise. Sometimes, on good days, we can grip onto the strings of colour and excitement and hate inside ourselves, grip onto them like they are the puppet strings of the rest of the universe.

Its like being in two bubbles at one, it’s skipping stones of awareness across lakes that have whole worlds hidden inside each and every cell. We co-exist with everything that we are and everything in the whole goddamn everything, just because we exist in general.

I know it might sound philosophical or, even mad, but it’s true. We just don’t notice that it is. We just don’t notice. We never did.

Someone in the universal admin department is tugging at their collar

My mind has always been so much other than my skin can believe. I am trapped in a time I don’t belong in. There had been some great, universal fuck up and for some ungodly reason I was born years after I was supposed to. This is what I believe, this is the best I can come up with.

When people who don’t know me walk past me in the street, they are seeing me in my mistaken physical body. They are seeing the tall, female, teenager with headphones and red hair and they immediately they think of every stereotype that fits the profile. Goth, punk, rebel, insecure, probably depressed. It goes on. But then I smile at them, or perhaps I trip over my own feet, or maybe I’m walking with my friends or my little sister and the list of stereotypes change in order to accommodate the context. They see me as the colossal cock-up in the timeline that I am. They see me at fourteen.

I am fourteen.

But also, I’m not.

On the internet I can be mistaken for a uni student or something of that genre. My words are too long, and I know too much, and I talk too much, and I’m too tall, and I listen too much. Sometimes I make political statements during PE and get into feministic debates with my teachers. This is not supposed to happen, I’m told.

Because I am fourteen and from what I have heard fourteen years olds aren’t supposed to be able to talk about the battle strategies of Napoleon and his march into Russia, they’re not meant to try and write books or be critical about themselves unless it’s about how much they weigh. They’re not meant to lecture their teachers about lecturing girls who’s skirts show ‘too’ much thigh. I am not who I am meant to be.
According to what society basis normality on at least.

It all comes down to age doesn’t it? You have to be old enough to do a lot of things legally, for good reasons too. I wouldn’t trust half of my peers with a pair of car keys, but I would think my sister old enough to learn to drive, despite her being a year below the legal age. There are a lot of things I would trust myself with, but, in the past, I haven’t been a very good judge of what I should be allowed to do.

And then you have to think where people get the ‘old enough’ laws.

Stereotypes of course, generalisations galore. The stereotype of a fifteen year old isn’t a pretty one, but the sixteen year old stereotype, perhaps you would trust that with a great hunk of metal that rolls along flat surfaces when you push the right buttons.

Me, my sisters, my family, others stuck rudely in the wrong stereotype, we converge in places where you don’t have to think about the rules of society. Where grown adults can argue feverishly with twelve year olds about what brand of ice cream tastes best in front of a marathon of Disney movies and where thirteen year olds can learn what they’re not meant to be learning yet.

This is the realm that I feel safe in.