Tired

I'm sick of the sound of my own voice.

It happens sometimes. To everyone, I hope, but certainly to me. I get irritated with my own thoughts and my own noise and whatever it is I'm saying or trying to say, and all I want is to shut myself the hell up.

Which is harder than you'd think. Even when I'm on my scooter - ostensibly driving - I'm chatting away: internally, of course, but nevertheless with great enthusiasm. Ideas, observations, criticisms. Hopes, dreams, memories, jokes; words relentlessly pouring through my head. A typical minute would be: I need a way to make that photo richer, maybe a filter, I could angle it so the light is - is that character saying enough? isn't she a bit two dimensional? what if I - wow, look at that cloud, it's really prett- could i stop the scooter and take a pictu - I'm late for work, and I don't care. It smells like oranges, and Christmas. What does Christmas mean to Japan? Is it time to start thinking about Christmas yet? Ooh, if I sing wearing a helmet my chin vibrates. There's a heron; I remember that heron last year, on the beach with Sa... No. Think of something else. The heron is flying away anyway. There's another one! Two herons! Is that lucky, or is that just for crows? Am I going too fast? If I crashed my scooter, would people miss me? Maybe for a few minutes. God, I'm so replaceable. My nose just snotted on my scarf, and I sort of want to lick it. Hey dude, get out of my bit of the road or I'm going to stop my scooter and punch you right in the - That smoke smells amazing; I wish I had somebody to make a fire for me. But what if the filter was tinted, would that wor - no, what if I give a little more of the plot to the other charac - another heron! Three! That's definitely lucky, right? Today is going to be a good day, the herons have ordained it. And so on.

I'm trying to get away from it this week. I'm worn out with it, and so tired, and so confused by the point of it. So unsure of who could possibly be interested, when I'm not. So tired of hearing myself. I'm learning to play the piano again because it doesn't involve words. Sleeping, because I dream in pictures. Onsening. Vacuuming things. Drawing. Anything that doesn't involve thinking or speaking or any kind of language. And it's working a little bit, but not quite enough. It's like sitting on a really noisy child, who's squealing and yelling and trying to pinch my bottom so I'll let them back up again. And half of my energy is spent just hissing Be quiet. For five minutes. Please? Then you can come back out and do what you want.


So I'm not indulging the sound of my own voice this week. I'm taking a holiday. This week, the words in my head are doing what I tell them to do. And so I'm not writing this blog, and I'm not talking for the hell of it, and I'm not even going to think if I can get away with it (of course I can get away with it: I'm a teacher). No words, outwardly or inwardly. Not until my own voice has learnt how to behave, and each word isn't so damn heavy and exhausting.

And maybe, eventually, I'll train my own voice how and when to shut the hell up.