In recent months, I have slipped into habit, into repetition. In short, I have become a stylistic conversationalist, and I hate myself for it.
Different people in different situations call for different conversational styles, and I have them all lined up in neat little boxes, ready to go. These days, it would seem that I have resorted to only ever talking in exactly the way the other person expects of me. A hefty dose of sarcasm here, world-weariness there, attempts at obscure humour here, nervous shyness there, and not forgetting being ‘a good listener’. (And honestly, if I hear the phrase ‘a good listener’ one more time, I won’t be responsible for my actions).
It all feels so lacking in genuine feeling, genuine emotion, genuine interest. I feel so false.
(Yes, I’m very well aware that I am taking something that cannot be analysed and analysing it to death. But if you hadn’t yet noticed this annoying habit of mine, then I would humbly suggest that you’ve not really been paying attention.)
I think I’d like a normal conversation — a relaxed chat with no sub-text, where my brain isn’t running ahead of itself as it desperately tries to tell my mouth how to respond in the correct manner. Turn off the constantly whirring mind and take a conversational risk.
The only problem is that I’m no longer sure I’m capable of that necessary degree of spontaneity. I would probably pass out.
Don’t mind me. I didn’t sleep much last night and this evening I knocked back two extremely large glasses of wine. Not a good idea.
Living inside my own head, cocooned in a world of solitary fantasy, seems a far better option at times like this.