I have a confession to make: I talk to myself. I even wrote a poem about it, called “Nuts”:
If I tried very hard
I could probably find
a way to get by
without losing my mind.
But where would the fun be
in keeping my sanity?
would be able to talk to me.
I’d have to cope
with the very small hope
that my own conversation
would be quite enough for me,
knowing full well
that’s the worst kind of hell
because who in their right mind
could actually unwind
listening to something
they’d much rather tell?
What strikes me funny about that poem is the concept of talking to myself, which I have obviously over-thought. Why do I say I talk to myself? Why don’t I say I listen to myself? If I’m not listening to myself, am I any better at listening to others? I could also say, if I don’t listen to myself, how can I expect anyone else to listen to me?
It’s enough to make you nuts. Hence, the title.
I still find the poem funny (is that wrong?), but now also consider it theologically flawed because I really don’t believe I’m ever talking to myself.
My Constant Companion is listening.
That Companion of mine hears every word, every rant, every insecure utterance, every mean-spirited comment, every crude joke, every smart remark, and every bad poem. Some days, I may wish I were talking to myself, but I have a Constant Companion with whom I converse, intentionally and unintentionally.
What if I talked to everyone else—even the people I believe have lost the battle to preserve their sanity—as I talk to my Companion? What if I spoke to humanity as if it were part of the Sacred, one of the Holy threads that connects all creation? What if every conversation were a prayer?
Dear God, my Constant Companion, please listen to my conversations and help me consider them all dialogues with you—even the conversations I have with myself. May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight oh God, my strength and my redeemer.