An Inner Monologue

When I walk in the dark evening with my dog it is usually very quiet. In the distance over the forest is traffic. People rushing somewhere but to me it's just a faint hum. The houses are quiet, the folk having gone to bed. Sometimes a dog barks, but no-one pays him heed. A startled bird is roused from its perch and bats fly silent as the shadows from the street lights.

It's quiet.

But there is a voice telling me secrets. A silent voice, if there can be such. I listen, for it makes sense to listen when no-one else can hear, and it narrates my day, expresses my thoughts and plans my future. The voice considers my problems, balances the risks and considers the options so that I have some-one to discus things with and make the decisions that govern my life. There is no-one else to discus things with now.

And my inner monologue also plots out my stories, develops my characters and describes the scenes that I then write up almost without cognisance. The words appear on the page like leaves falling from autumn trees until there is a pattern on the page that just needs the most gentle arrangement for it to make sense. Then there is the story that I wanted to tell but didn't know how. The story of a girl, who once was my lover, then became my wife and the mother of my sons and then became a stranger in my house, seemingly without pause.

That is why I listen to the silent voice.