I Talk To Myself

While talking to myself I often engage in conversation with others, you know they’re not really there, but they are - firing dialogue back to me in discreet but perfect tones and lyrics. The usual chimeric conversation teeters on the spine of self-obsession with the other party of my choosing asking all kinds of interesting questions about my interesting past. There I am wallowing in my own indulgence, drunk on the idea that these people should find me incredible. The exception to this insanity is that when I carry apparitional exchange with this girl I overflow with queries of her life and thoughts and sorrows. I want to know all that I can about her, to gather all of her information in my arms like picking up a pile of autumn leaves. Tell me everything, please I’m interested in everything about you.