This post is part of a series. For it to make sense, you read "Voices" first.

The Voice of Reason was the captain's chief advisor for the majority of my life. If we picture our child-captain: frightened, insecure, lacking the confidence to lead, then the Voice of Reason is the wizened old uncle. He is family. He genuinely cares about the child's wellbeing. But he has a job to do, and his duty is his first priority.

Years (and years) ago, the captain whispered to the Voice of Reason: "don't let me get hurt," which became that Voice's life's work.

He froze the captain at age eleven and assumed the role of guardian. He dedicated himself to saving the child from any harm. He stood in front of the him for nearly two decades, acting as captain himself while the child hid, staying safe—avoiding pain—avoiding life.

That voice would caution against any risk, presenting facts to demonstrate the magnitude of pain at stake and projecting a likelihood for success.

"Look at all the people who try and fail. There are hundreds of them for every one great. And look how embarrassing that looks!"

He would get out in front of oncoming pain, softening the impact, asking, "how much do we really need the things we don't have?"

"You want wealth? We know money doesn't bring happiness. We can be content and broke, finding joy elsewhere."

"You want success and recognition? That's just your ego talking. We can move above seeking attention."

“You want love? It isn't real anyway, and your freedom may be worth more to you in the long run."

He relieves the pain we couldn't avoid, soothing with calming perspectives.

"Of course it sucks that mom is gone. Of course. But let's think: how much of your life will REALLY change? How many individual moments will be different? What percentage of your time did you spend with her? Won't comedy shows still be funny? Beer still cold? Friends still abundant?"

He's insidious. He has something to say about everything.

"Don't get your hopes up."

"We don't need that."

"Dwelling doesn't help. Let's move on."

He's smooth. He's smart. He's measured. He's authoritative. He has a calm-confidence that suggests his words are true. He's impossibly hard to argue with. His tone alone makes him sound right at all times.

We can come up with plenty of nice ideas about being an artist or connecting with God, but he's always there quietly saying, "now, deep down we know that's not true."

He is rational thought. He is reason.

Except he's unreasonable. And he doesn't abide by the strict, unbiased logic he pretends to. He is not grounded in truth or reality.

He offers lies wrapped in a slick package that looks and sounds a hell of a lot like logic.

His biases are out of control. He twists reality. He hand-picks facts (or blind guesses at stats that sound good). He blatantly ignores others, covering his ears and yelling like a child himself.

And anytime he realizes he isn't getting his way he'll throw one last-minute seed of doubt into the captain's decisions. He always gives himself a backdoor, handing the captain a safety chute. The "fuck it, it doesn't matter" eject button can always be pushed in emergencies.

But I see you, Mr. Reasonable. I get the game we're playing.

And I'm tempted to go to war. Sometimes I do go to war. The Voice of Reason was in charge for so long that I feel the need to wrestle control back. I have little patience when he digs his heels in.

I've had shouting matches in my head.
I've had shouting matches in my notebooks.
The voice of reason is a frustrating son of a bitch.

But a good captain doesn't toss advisors who are just doing their job. And I realize I owe this voice a lot. I'm not dead right now. In fact, I'm here right now, and this isn’t so bad.

So I see you. I get it. You still get your seat at the table.
But you don't get to dominate the conversation.
You don't get the last word.
You get your allotted time to say your piece, then you sit the fuck back down.

Decisions are made by God & the captain now.