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They weren’t as loud today. It made me uneasy. It felt like they were plotting something behind my back, just out of earshot. Usually the voices would be chattering, pointing out the different things I come across and adding an unwanted commentary to my mundane everyday. Today they were very quiet.
Despite my estranged relationship with the chatter in my head, it did make the days without them unnerving and, in a sick way, rather lonely. When you have something so constant, it can be a weird shift when that thing is no longer there.
I keep myself busy enough though in the foreign silence. Today it was refilling my stock of regeneration potions, taking care of the dogs, taking inventory of the things I have and making a list of things I need to go out for tomorrow, and waiting up for Phil. He had messaged me early this morning and said he might swing by.
He did not.
Instead, I spent the evening with myself. In silence. I took the time to inspect my weapons and armor and check their durability and enchantments. It’s a task I fool with very rarely, but tonight I was desperate to keep myself busy.
I actually ended up working for a while. I had neglected to refill my lapis supply after making and enchanting my new set of armor, so I had to forage around my supplies until I found a stack misplaced in a random chest. The process was boring and not as stimulating as I hoped, since it’s a process I’ve gone through many times before.
Make a sword.
Get emeralds from the chest.
Find the villager that trades a mending book.
Make the trade.
Add the book to the sword using an anvil.
Repeat with steps 2-5 for the other enchantments.
Give the sword a funny name.
Repeat for all items.
Boring.
But, it still manages to satisfy my need for input. My hands stay busy. The loud banging on the anvil, the greedy murmurs of the villagers, and the faint hum of enchantments are doing their job in filling the numbing silence left by the voices.
The sun was just beginning to go down when I realized something: I could read in peace. I love to read, but find that I only can on days when the voices are quieter or just generally not problematic. A small, giddy excitement bubbled under my sternum as I moved quickly to my books. I ran my fingers over the worn spines and settled on a book I forgot I even had. It was given to me by Wilbur years ago, a political science book about anarcho-capitalist societies. Typical Wilbur.
I took a seat on the floor, right there in front of my collection with my back against the shelves. I don’t expect to sit here long. I know I will finish this three hundred page book quickly without the hindrance and distractions of Chat, so I don’t stray too far from my library.
It was well into the night when I put down my last book. I had read three texts, including the one from Wilbur, and figured I ought to end my evening. I put away my book and climbed up the ladder to my room. I sat on the edge of my bed and pulled a small book and quill out from under it. I had started journaling at the end of the day as encouraged by Ranboo. Now, let me be clear: Ranboo had merely suggested I journal since he does and it helps him to remember things. I had told him there was nothing for me to remember. He didn’t know that a week later I began journaling.
Because there are things I want to remember. I want to remember training with Ranboo, going and mining with him. I want to remember him. I want to remember syndicate meetings. I want to remember the feeling of wither skulls in my hands. I want to remember late night talks with Phil. I want to remember the comfortable silence that falls over us as we watch the snow fall.
There are things I want to remember, so I journal because I don’t want to forget them.
Tomorrow, I’m sure the voices will be loud, back in all their vigor and gall. So tonight I write about my peaceful, quiet day.