Inner Monologue

I couldn’t make a sentence, I couldn’t even say what I meant to say. It has been observed that I can be somewhat reticent when I don’t have a keyboard in front of me or a couple of glasses of wine inside me.

Gert suggests that

perhaps too many people are taught to bottle up their emotion, that is un-genteel to express anything other than a measured equilibrium.

Obviously some people are born reserved and others have it thrust upon them. But it’s not about gentility; my mum’s family are fairly posh, and my dad’s family are not, but it’s certainly dad’s lot that brought out the undemonstrative in us. Frankly, mum overdoes the whole hugging thing, and has a horrible way with direct questions about one’s inmost feelings. People use the phrase dark horse to describe me, and I’m happy with that.

Dad showed me a reference once, that his boss had written about him. The only reservation the boss had was dad’s apparent absence in meetings, because he rarely spoke in front of a group; I’m not that bad, you know – I’m pretty vocal in meetings. Mind you, dad must have been younger then than I am now. What is this damned conspiracy to make me feel old at the moment?

It can’t be inarticulacy. In one of those moments when I know I really should say something because I’ve been quiet too long and I’ll be making other people feel uncomfortable, I start to obsess about it: say something. say what? I dunno, comment on the weather. I’ve already mentioned the weather Well, has it changed at all since you mentioned it? I can’t keep banging on about the weather, they’ll think I’m boring. They already do; you haven’t said anything for ten minutes. Shuddup, it’s a companionable silence.

How come my inner monologue is so very verbose?

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