My inner monologue is broken. I never realized how much I loved hearing the voice in my head, especially the quiet morning voice that seemed to have so much wisdom. I can conjure other voices into my memory, my son’s and my husband’s, but this voice belongs to me even though it didn’t always sound like me. It seemed kinder and wiser than me too, so sometimes I attributed it to God’s voice. Who else could it belong to?
Later in the day, my inner monologue sounded like me. It would shift to my continued conversations with people I had spoken to, arguments I’d make, dialog to match scenes I imagined and the looks on the cats’ faces, and…
I forgot that Mike was home after all, and I just got pretty freaked out for a minute. You know, when your eyes dilate and you stop breathing for a moment to hear what’s happening in another room?
Okay, I’m going to go talk to a real person, not try to listen to a fractured voice in my head. I know he’s got plans for helping someone today, but he’s here now and I need to hear a coherent voice.
Thank you for listening, jules