Day 22

 Self monologue

The wonderful thing about talking to myself is this – they / we cannot be bored or at least, I will be kind enough to not to mention it to myself if I am.

I would be scrupulously polite like summertime, and though I'd think , well this is long and you are wasting my time (which is our time), thank you for holding space so I feel safe. Evening indeed.

If I were a president I might not be able to say this since my ego would outdo myself, making one me a great baby Gorgon of prancing and eating cities while the other Mr Me might be small and afraid, cowering in a luxury golf resort in a trophy room. I’m a locked desk drawer.

When I am a cat or bird, this is also a thing. It's excellent that scientists have proven by experiments that a cat truly has a self ideal. That their existence and every human face they see is actually a cat face for familiarity. I’d tell myself to smarten up, groom my fur and get crawling hunting in the long grass for field mice.

When I’m addressing myself I cut through flim flam and lies,  so much I make myself nervous. But they / I can layer it up again, like paint on a landscape canvas so nothing is so honest it’s disturbing.

When I look at others I can confirm that not all the people have my face and also that I’m pretty much one people.

I don’t, like many people, like the noise of my own speaking so only talk between us occasionally. I write myself letters  in lilac or green or red ink. It is always lovely to get a postcard from a distance which I do often, just by looking, by looking hard and blinking and remembering.

Even when I’m singing stories you’ll hardly see my mouth move.




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