I write;I think;I know.

Biting the heads off snakes

"Humour me," replied my cat.

"In that case," I replied, "yes, I've always heard voices." I paused and sighed, "although even a simple statement such as that suffers from a language issue."

"I can sense," said my cat, "the confusion within as you try to resolve it."

"It's the word 'heard'," I continued, "I play a piece of music and what I hear corresponds to the time-space-place of the room the speakers are in, put on a pair of headphones and what I hear corresponds to the time-space-place that can best be described as inside my head."

"So I take it the voices are different," asked my cat.

"Indeed," I answered, "they share the same time-space-place as the voice of my thoughts, the place I hear the words when I'm reading a book."

"I imagine that's confusing."

"Certainly," I agreed, "sometimes the voices do voices, sound like others, and in its way that better. Because when they don't I'm left in a place where I'm never entirely certain my thoughts are my own." I paused to consider my past interpretations, "once I imagined this was simply me talking to myself; advocate and devil’s advocate." I looked down at my cat. "Then the voices began telling me things I couldn't possibly know."

"Such as," queried my cat.

"For the moment that's largely unimportant. Because those voices could be said to correspond to wearing a pair of headphones, are considered to be inside my head as it were." For a moment I paused to consider the evidence of my senses. "But there's also a voice that come from elsewhere, outside my head, but not in the room."

"A voice," queried my clearly confused cat, "singular."

"Singular," I replied. "I couldn't claim it's always the same voice, but when it's there it's direct, focused, singular." I thought about it some more, "I get the impression this voice wants to say more. Yet others are blocking it. A blockage which translates to a pressure inside my skull. But when I'm relaxed, or drifting between sleep and wakefulness, I can hear it for a few seconds."

"Seconds," queried my cat.

"Yes," I agreed, "seconds. For something wakes and blocks it."

"I would imagine," said my cat, "that would make what it says largely inintelliagable."

"Not really," I shaking my head. "Whatever it is it's not stupid, so it usually manages to punch through something worthwhile, and unlike the voices inside my mind the tone and intonation are remarkably expressive."

"Any recent examples," purred my cat, "which you'd like to share."

"Certainly," I replied, "'Oh, Christ!', it said, 'You've got a confessor.'"

"And the tone," asked my cat.

"Good for me," I smiled, "bad for them."

"Good for me too," purred my cat as she rested her head on my lap. "Now, human," she said with feline charm, "tell me how beautiful I am whilst I allow you to stroke me."