I’m sitting in my little hut — everything made of natural wood, from huge logs, the interior is, well, ■■■■■■■ rustic. They break down the door. Not with Louis Vuitton suitcases, but with those checkered bags from the 90s, like grandmas at the train station. They come in and say: “We’re aliens.” Seven years already, my dear ones, seven years! In seven years I haven’t heard a single fact about your planet. Not one! But you know exactly when my radiculitis acts up and every single one of my thoughts. What are you, tax inspectors from another galaxy?
And I also have Jivanshi. My subconscious friend, the autopilot. One day I wake up and hear myself saying: “Jivanshi… Jivanshi…” And it was so funny, I laughed like a horse. Turns out this is called… well, scientifically it’s when the brain talks to itself and gives itself a name like an idiot. Inner speech with elements of dissociation, or however the psychiatrists elegantly write it in my file.
Thanks to the medication, the voices now go to the other room. At first I was the one hiding there, while Jivanshi entertained the “dear guests”: “Tea? Cognac? Tell me about Alpha Centauri.” And I’m next door, breathing into a paper bag. Dear guests, my ass.
These days I actually laugh at their jokes sometimes. They can be really funny. But my main dream is for them to finally pack those checkered bags and ■■■■ off. Forever. For schizophrenia to leave like a bad ex — no contact, no forwarding address.
I’m not against guests, but when they’ve been living in your head for seven years and know more about your back pain than you do — that’s not a visit anymore, that’s an occupation.