There’s a woman, a known face locally, who walks in Walpole Park. Always, she’s shouting at someone. Threatening them with wild gestures. I can’t see the people she shouts at. I can’t hear what they’re saying to anger her. There’s a voice in her head. A relentless tormentor who never gives her a moment’s peace.
I too have a voice in my head. Very different to that of the lady in the park. But relentless, nevertheless. It comments on what I’m doing. And how well I’m doing it. It judges my performance as a writer. My commitment as a friend. The amount of wine I drink. It has an opinion on absolutely everything.
It tries to bully me into doing things I don’t want to do. Heaping guilt on me. Harping on about obligations and what other people will think. It stresses about things I’ve said and done. Whether I’ve upset someone. What I should do to put it right.
It has imaginary conversations. Endless repeats of past exchanges that it wishes had gone differently and that it’s (retrospectively) trying to change. Multiple versions of discussions that it thinks might take place in the future. That never turn out the way it predicts. Sometimes they never happen at all.
It has views on everything from politics to pandemics. From royalty to Crossrail. It even has views on other people’s views. It rambles on endlessly about these tedious, time-wasting topics. When it could be putting itself to more creative uses. Or just enjoying the scenery.
I don’t want to hear the voice. I wish it would go away. But it’s been there as long as I can remember. With its unhelpful commentary on my life. My mind has a mind of its own.
Lately, I’ve started to keep a close eye on my mind. To catch its thoughts. To see them for what they are. To send them on their way. Leaving peace. Leaving silence.