A modern epistle on society’s propensity towards writing over talking which in reality means people’s desire to text rather than converse, otherwise known as everyone’s desire to be heard yet not to listen.

In truth, this may not be an epistle (AKA a formal or humorous letter or a literary work in the form of letters) as it may only be long enough to hold the shortest of attention spans, depending on if I get to the point quickly enough.

How often do you talk to yourself after an altercation or conversation or even a speechless moment in time that you wish you could change or alter in some way, whether it be by action or word? I often find myself reliving and swallowing angst over the smallest of details that I feel could colour someone’s opinion of me. Even if I have never and shall never see such person again.

How often do you wish you had the word or quote or quip right on your tongue, at the ready, when you really need it, only to find it failing you miserably until hours later while in the bath?

It seems that many things fail me, words and actions and thoughts and deeds until I am indeed in the bath. Then I am rendered fully loquacious and within all my mental faculties, simply minus the audience. Thank goodness really. That mental image could be enough to put my audience into apoplectic shock. However, my words are still worth remembering and putting down on paper. Especially those fueled by musical emotions while listening to my favorite Pandora channels.

In the end, it seems everything comes down to music for me. My memories, my influences, my muses, my companions, my demons…..much of my art is tied to the musical numbers that I associate with that particular memory or feeling. I have often thought that one could not understand me even while reading my words unless they were listening to the particular musical tract that played through my brain at the concurrent time of reminiscence.

I have taken to speaking my thoughts and memories while recording them on my phone. Oftentimes I’ve found the most painful expressions or acute observations are lost to me within moments if I must find a way to write or type them before they flit away from the edges of my brain the way sparrows fly away before a storm. Our thoughts and feelings matter and if one speaks to themselves, it is entirely natural and healthy.

I simply say that because I think and speak to myself while conversing and arguing with myself in many ways constantly. As anyone of any state of mind would say of themselves, I must reiterate that I am, indeed, perfectly healthy and normal in every way.

But am I really?

Are you really?