The main theme of the last week has been Losing My Inner Monologue. That’s
what my sister calls it, as apparently once I accused her of same, bored
off my tits by her constant, mindless babbling. The inner monologue becomes
an outer one.
It seems that the Inner Monologue was lost somewhere around 7am on Saturday
morning, after a night of no sleep and much drunkness. Somewhere after
the sunrise and before the terrified kissing of the surprised faces, the
mad dash from the café, the sigh of relief heaved as ass-cheek
hit bus seat – I lost my Inner Monologue.
It was replaced, though. It was replaced by an Outer Monolgue. The contents
are the same, but they are published before they are ready. The gate was
lifted; the scold’s bridle that keeps inner thoughts from escaping
was loosed from the tongue of my mind, and all hell has broken loose.
The Outer Monologue drifts from between tongue and teeth into the ether,
where it hangs around my head like a cloud of black midges. I cannot swat
them away and cannot suck them back. They swarm round the ears of those
in proximity to me. They are trouble.
My sister says it’s the drugs. She says the drugs break your capacity
for Inner Monologue, and you can never get it back. She says that’s
what happened to her. I don’t think it is, though. I think it’s
this. I think it’s the writing. The lack of writing.
I don’t have time for writing. I am Spreadsheet Diva. O, you should
see me – colouring the tabs in different colours, linking the separate
Business User worksheets to the main page – and it gives me immense
pleasure, just as algebra did back at school.
It’s containable, controllable, logical: none of which apply to
the normal processes and fruits of my mind. It’s a new playroom
to explore, with limited entry capacity, and strict notices to eject Ms
AMP at a moment’s notice. I need to be taken by the hand and guided
around like a little child: but I love it there. I’m taking a trip
to logic town. Observe the strange new ways of this town’s people!
But there’s no time for this. This embarrassing sprawl
of consiousness and brainjuice and gossip and mundanity: it’s caged,
it’s chained, yet it must escape somehow. Hence, Outer Monologue.
S o r r y.
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