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Even when alone, someone is listening

It used to be that if you saw someone alone, say in a car or out walking, and his jaw was flapping away, you could assume he was either singing or crazy, or both. Today, you can’t make that assumption, as the person in question could be doing a myriad of personal things with his device. So it’s pretty good cover for those who actually talk to themselves more than might seem normal. Which is actually quite a few of us.

Artists have a good excuse. For writers, there is a perpetual argument going on inside the head – multiple voices vying for the final words, the ones that command attention and glow with clarity. Actors, musicians, and orators must repeat their verse over and over again. Among the masses, self-talk happens everywhere: mean old men mutter and gripe, old ladies peck and snipe, young teenage girls whisper their complicated relationship songs softly and Swift-ly, and young men practice lines of conversation they got from the internet to help them appear more interesting when out on a date.

On a more serious note, talking to oneself can be a symptom of a mental problem, such as multiple personality disorder or other forms of psychotic illness. But to try to undertake and characterize those conversations would be a dark and futile process, like entering a vortex from which one might never return.

One thing is certain: the more alone you are, the more habit-forming these one-on-none conversations become. Much of the chatter occurs while going about regular chores and routines – verbal reminders about taking out the garbage, or calling the vet, or practicing what you will say to someone important. Or it could be a warning to oneself, like about the importance of not saying something stupid at an upcoming interview or social event.

I think our most intriguing soliloquies happen at night – in those surreal moments before sleep when we are in limbo, on the verge of a dream. We are not whispering to ourselves, but rather to dead people – ghosts of those from our past with whom we had special relationships. They appear in the quiet space before us.

Sometimes it is simply because we miss them dearly. It might be a grandparent, or favorite aunt or uncle, or a close friend – one who was always comforting, and could be depended on to help us through tough times. The face is soft in the amber light of our imaginings. We might hear their breathing, but no voice speaks back to us.

We might encounter ghosts of those we wronged a long time ago, the memory of whom has sunk uneasily into our mirky subconscious. Their visage is clear before us, yet they seem distant, detached, obliquely aware of our presence. All we can say is “I’m sorry. I’m sorry” over and over again, like counting sheep, as they drift away into the night through the bedroom window.

I think the most elusive ghosts are those of our parents. Maybe it’s because they live more within us than without. Or maybe it’s because the questions we want to ask them cannot be answered yet, and that there are no magic doors through which spirits travel; only calm abidance can bridge the past with the present.

The ghosts here are not like the phantoms from books or movies who set out to frighten us or haunt our souls or make us repent. They do not / cannot talk back to us. But that is not to say that they don’t listen. Or that they don’t feel our emotions. Or read our thoughts. They are there for a reason, and that is to send us a message as old as the world itself.

Life is a continuum, a procession, a caravan of our shared experiences, a journey sometimes darkened by hate or sickness or violence, yet always relit by love. I wonder if that is the essence of prayer. That when we speak softly and earnestly about our fears and weaknesses, Someone is listening. This Someone does not speak words, but, if we listen long and hard enough, we might begin to hear something like music, like a choir calling us to a place where we may reunite by a great river flowing infinitely toward a rising star.

Pete Howard is the author of The Hourglass Pendant and other Paul James Mysteries. He lives in Dunkirk and teaches ELA at Northern Chautauqua Catholic School. Send comments to editorial@observertoday.com

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