Monica B.´s Logbook from oPide 112 118 209 (kurti) - kind of an autobiographical-poetic diary. In the fiction the author Monica B. (B = Borboleta = butterfly) is in an unknown place in space, in a mega-city; but of the millions, no one else is alive except her. Typical for the narrator (as for me) is to feel as different people in different places at different times
What made me silent for years and decades are the voices. Once when this City was filled with people it was a noisy cluster; noisy for the ears. I don´t know what kind of antenna i own, what kind of sensibility, but i had to hear the voices in the people´s heads too. And i was still a child when the dead found out i could hear them. Thenceforth apparently every being from everywhere and every time wished to tell me their anger.
THIS IS MY MESSAGE TO YOU: Please join me in listening! My hope, unfulfilled until now, is, that any additional listener would help comforting the voices.
I tell you what´s waiting for you: unhappy, dissatisfied plaintive voices. I can have no clear own thought, when the mourners fill me with their shit, their complaints about their lost lifes. I don´t judge and i have no clue how to do it any better; they themselves tell me every detail how they succesfully ruined their lifes.
Nothing you can tell a voice. A voice never listens. Not all voices are crap rubbish. When i fail for a certain time to hear the fine wise voices out of the mourning choir i become a lamenting voice myself. How embarrassing!