Talking to Myself - Jan 24 2026

 

Talking to Myself

Jan 24 2026

I talk to myself.

This voice in my head

that sounds like me,

and may be as close as I get

to my essential self.

How did we got along

before there was language?

Were there even thoughts,

or just images

needs and wants

a flood of sensation?

Was there certainty

instead of all these moral qualms

and endless self-questioning?

Was life simpler then

or was there an emptiness

  — like an echo

that never returns?

Who are we without words?

Do dumb animals have inner lives?

Why can’t I shut him up?

He can be unsparing,

speaking truth

and puncturing denial.

Yet as much as I try

he’s hard to ignore.

He can contradict himself.

An angel, whispering into an ear;

but also the devil

perched near the other

like an evil troll.

He can be catty

sardonic

satirical,

which is why I’m glad

only I can hear.

I say “he”,

but really need a novel pronoun

to describe a relationship

as complicated as this;

some kind of grammar to explain

that while I don’t embrace him

I can’t get away from myself.

Do you hear voices, they ask

as if there’s anything unusual in that;

I answer No

because it’s insanity

to admit there’s a voice in your head.

Except when he hijacks mine.

When he somehow slips out

through loose lips

like a bad ventriloquist,

only noticing

when I feel their eyes on me

and instantly bite my tongue,

flushed cheeks

hot with self-consciousness. 

Caught

talking to myself

   . . . out loud.

Which happens more and more 

when you live alone.

Like the old man

who pushes a shopping cart

with all his meagre possessions,

muttering to himself

and cursing angrily

as he shuffles along.

Who knows himself too well

to bother with niceties

or bite his tongue.

Who has no fear

of being judged.