There has been a lot of discussion about whether or not people have an inner monologue. We don't have an adequate vocabulary to explain what goes on in our heads or convey it to other people. We can't comprehend how others experience their lives, just as we can't understand what they see or hear.
My inner monologue is trying to bridge the gap by becoming an outside monologue. I have spent a lot of time alone recently, as my family went away, and I have started talking about the things I used to think were funny. One study found talking to yourself might help you find your keys, but it also revealed troubling things about me.
Even though the dog is blind and indifferent, I am still nice to him. I was alarmed to discover that I am terrible to them. People talk to plants, but not as rude as I do. I lectured a sickly sunflower recently, and then barked: "Come on, that's pathetic!" I was suspicious that the brassicas were doing something to lure them. Look at you, everyone else is fine.
I addressed the robot vacuum cleaner in the indoors. How are you doing under the couch? Is it possible for you to do your job? I yelled at the shower last week, "I can't stand it, you need to stop dripping or I'll rip you off the wall."
I thought I was the kind of person who would apologize to a bollard if I walked into it. What are the neighbours' thoughts? I'm taking some time to reflect.
She is a columnist for the Guardian.
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