We’re talking. Well, mostly you right now, and I’m listening, or trying anyway, really I am—only about four sentences back you said something that made me think of The Show, and now it’s taking most of my concentration just to keep my mouth from opening and spilling out all the words that are going now in the middle of my head.
(I say it’s the middle. Most times they seem to go on in the back, The Show and whichever other thing it is right now—folktales, at the moment. Cycling and connecting and explaining everything that happens outside, and most of what’s inside, too. And the front of my mind is occupied right now with worrying about my mouth and my face and whether I should nod or laugh or “hm”, so the middle it is.)
That’s good, because now I can talk. It was getting very hard to wait.
Except that’s bad, because now I can talk.
And I do. I talk so much, and some of the words go in circles and some get twisted up in “um”s and “like”s and “I think”s, but they all come out eventually, I think, or most of them at least.
Then I pause to take a breath, and to let you say something, because I could talk us to the moon and back but I like when other people say things too—and anyway, I realize, I’ve been talking a long time now, and its probably too long, because I always talk too long.
Now you’re talking, and I really am listening, but it gets difficult quickly because there’s lots of other things to think about, like what faces to make and what sounds and the way my leg is pressing against the chair and the fiddling fingers that I’m suddenly very aware of.
And now I’ve thought of something else to say, a lot more things, and so there’s not saying those to worry about as well.
You’ll get to a pause soon probably. When you pause, that means it’s my turn to talk. Then I can say the things.
Except you’ve sort of changed the subject now. And now I’ve got more things to say—but I wasn’t done with The Show. I want to go back. The words are starting to fill up my mouth, and if I don’t let them out I feel like maybe they’ll fall out on their own anyway.
I am trying very hard to remember the rules, but it’s hard, and now I’m having trouble thinking of anything but The Show and how badly I want to talk about it and how that’s against the rules, and I’m forgetting to do the faces and the sounds and things, and that’s bad, because those are important.
I can’t really hear what you’re saying. It’s getting blocked out by everything else.
I try very hard for a while, but eventually it stops working. I need to go back and let out all the words that have been building up, or I won’t hear anything you say. So I ask if I can talk about it, and I think that I probably sound desperate and I hope it’s that because desperate is better than bored. But maybe I don’t sound either because there isn’t room in my brain for making tone sound right anymore.
I talk a lot. Sometimes you join in, but mostly it’s me. I have more to say about this than most people seem to. I have more to say about this than almost anything.
I can’t stop now. Eventually I realize I’ve probably been talking for quite a while, and you’ve stopped joining in, and usually I think people get bored by now. So you’re probably bored. I think I should stop—this is ridiculous, and I’m being annoying—but there’s too much momentum, and I can’t seem to make myself. I will stop eventually—by now, I’m wishing for something to happen, for you to say something, whatever, because I’m starting to be concerned. Because I’m annoying, and people don’t like annoying people, and people don’t want to spend time with people who they don’t like. Because no one talks for this long unless they’re a narcissist, or at least self obsessed. Because no one has this much trouble listening unless they’re one of those things. My mind is a whirlwind of “because”s but that doesn’t stop me talking, because the words have been saving themselves up minute after minute after minute, and now they insist on being said.