He could talk with them for hours. Sitting in his living room, blinds closed, he would forget wat time of day it was, when he last ate or drank, the outside world, sounds, smells. His family. Sarah. John. She had left him, taken his only child with them, his beautiful boy, crying, confused, asking why daddy didn’t say anything. How long ago was that now? Tears had streamed down his face, but they came without feeling, just a response, a reflex, something his body decided that should happen. He knew in his bones he was meant to hurt for them, that part of him already did, would always do, somewhere buried deep inside. But his mind wouldn’t let that happen. Not now. Not while they were here.
So many voices. No, not voices really. Entities, personalities: words that made them less warm, less like who they were. It was thoughts, feelings, desires, secrets. People. His people. In their entirety. That’s what they were.
People of all ages that would know his thought almost before he thought them, who shared his worst mistakes, his shame. At first, it was only their voices, their reactions to the world around them. A boy, crying for his mother, an elderly woman, bitter about her loneliness, a man dreading the loss of his job. He felt differences in their thoughts, the words their thoughts used, the colours of their feelings. He knew they were from a different country, culture, spoke a language different from his, that he would never understand. But somehow he could understand them all.