Now and then I hear somebody wondering at people talking to themselves. But these apparently senseless monologues are not that different in nature from the average phone conversation or even from the act of sitting in front of a screen. The reason people are so easily engrossed and addicted to things like television and the internet, why they even feel the need for games and shows and magazines, is kind of obvious, really. And it’s the same with their love of sociability and, in the end, with most of the things they do, actually. It seems people are afraid of being left alone with that meandering little voice in their heads that speaks to them about the terrifying side of their lives, about the everyday minutest vile truths.
“This is what it’s going to be like, this is how it has always been. There is no such thing as a present, time is forever the same. Can’t you see death is not beyond the curve, nor is it at your heels? It’s eating away at you from your viscera. You are your own gravedigger.”
And it’s not only speaking of grand things as death. It also knows of all the causes for remorse and regret, of the flavorlessness of days and years wasted delaying and downsizing possibilities, of trading ideals for trim junk. It knows of the raised voices and commonplace prevarications, of the unforgivable word said out of arrogant stupidity, whether or not it was taken back at a later date. It knows of the broken promise, the withdrawn hand, and the inattentive ear; of the crushing weight of rejected responsibilities, whose embrace reaches far and wide. How relatively easy it is to drown the little voice in background noise and to live the illusion of resetting the clock each day. The more encompassing the daily racket, the better. How convenient that these days the nights are short and every threatening hint of loneliness is pushed at the corners.