Talking To Myself

Stop. I feel like saying don’t go. But who am I to say that. I talk to myself, all the time. Stop eavesdropping you sneaky thing. Some things are private. But, then, it wouldn’t be interesting if it were public, would it now. Are you still listening though I told you not to. Good. I told you so only to make it interesting. How would it sound if I said gather around y’all, come hear what I have to say. Wouldn’t that work, work to chase everyone a way. So, I make it exciting: I whisper; I tell you don’t listen; I throw suspicious looks at myself. And you get excited, as do I. You’re excited for you listen in to a private conversation between myself; I am excited because now I really have something to talk about.

“Who wants to be excited anyway?” I ask myself. “Everyone,” I answer myself. “That was a rhetorical question,” I tell myself. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” I reprimand myself. “Don’t talk down to me,” I say to myself. “Look who’s talking,” I cynic myself. “Touché,” I reply to myself. “Ye, I always get the last word,” I rub it in to myself.

They say talk is cheap. They are wrong – talk is free, free speech. Talk all you like, but don’t say a word. Saying what you talk would be wrong. Talking what you say would be weird. So don’t mix your talking and your saying. Do you hear what I talk; do you say what I hear.

I listen to myself talking and I don’t like what I hear. It’s kind of funny listening in to yourself talking to yourself. It’s like listening to a recording of your own voice – I don’t sound like that.

They say only crazies talk to themselves. I wonder if they were listening in to themselves talk. Not only crazies talk to themselves (true, only crazies talk crazily to themselves, but) even normals talk to themselves – albeit normally.

This is writing: talking to yourself so others could listen in.