Monologue

There is a fine line separating genius from insanity. The perceived difference between a person talking to them self and keeping a diary (or journaling for the pseudo-sophisticated) is as far apart as the East is from the West. The written exercise can be defined as writing down one’s thoughts or recording the events of the day. It’s important to note that this activity is done alone, much like playing solitaire. But if instead one were to verbalize these thoughts to themself (thinking out loud), they would be considered as not quite right in the head.

Talking to one’s self starts early in life. A baby will often jabber and coo to no one in particular. They stare into space and carry on as if there were someone conversing with him or her. My mother used to say they were talking to their guardian angel.

Later on, as we age and lose our ability to converse with angels, some of us will create imaginary friends to talk to. Sometimes this continues well into adulthood. James Thurber illustrated this with his wonderful short story, “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.”

Singing in the shower is common and well documented, but start talking to yourself about the merits of lather, rinse and repeat as you perform as instructed and people will look at you funny. I can sit with a book and read for hours without attracting attention, but the minute I start to read aloud (especially with expression) heads begin to turn.

It’s getting harder to tell if someone is engaged in a rather spirited debate with themselves or arguing with their spouse on a cell phone. If you don’t see the earpiece you may find yourself saying “poor thing” under your breath.

People with pets can get away with talking to their dog or cat. It’s when the conversation takes on the characteristics of a dialogue that they run into trouble.  I have it on good authority that farmers will talk to their cows. The cows also get yelled at quite a bit when they don’t cooperate, such as when they are being asked to get in the barn or the right stall. I don’t have any cows, but I have chickens and a cat. The cat is a good listener, but I cannot come up with a reason to talk to the chickens; they seem rather simple-minded, and we have absolutely nothing in common.

Mark, my college roommate, and I would visit a neighborhood establishment and have a beer on occasion.  On one particular occasion the door burst open and the entire bar became aware of a loud, animated argument a man was having with himself on whether he should stay or leave. After a few minutes of heated discussion, he ended up leaving. I was never able to determine whether he got his way by leaving or if he would have rather stayed.

But I think I know how he felt. A thinking man is considered intelligent; a man who talks to himself, even intelligently, is thought crazy. Sometimes I will mull something over in my mind, playing both sides of the argument until I finally decide which way to go. This is all well and good, as long as I keep quiet and toe the line.