I am a verbal exhibitionist
In a world ruled by words, where humans would be their humble subjects, I would probably be tried for exhibitionism and get sentenced to a long spell of total silence, in solitary confinement.
I talk too much, mainly about myself, and words pour out of my mouth like fireworks, in different directions.
I don’t talk in my sleep though, or at least that’s what I have been told. I think I produce enough words during the day and some recovery time is needed.
It would be a bit unfair towards my speaking self to claim that it’s all verbosity, strung along like an enormously long chain encircling the Earth twice and still dangling its end in the outer atmosphere.
I tell stories about myself, with a beginning, a middle and an end, proper stories. I tell someone I like a certain drink and then, immediately afterwards, I tell them the story behind that preference. Polite listening does not discourage or intimidate me. The story pushes its way through indifference, embarrassment and self-awareness.
I have been trying lately to understand where this story-telling incontinence comes from. Surely other people have at least the moral right to get a word in edgeways.
Books had been piling in various corners of my house, unobtrusive and clear evidence of a continuous quest. Reminders had been organized, popping up at the most unexpected moments of the day, to warn against excessive talking.
Fortunately, I think I have found the source of my affliction. In good time too, before I get crushed by a bookcase toppling over, overloaded with printed material. Or succumb to a heart attack, due to a rogue noisy reminder in the middle of the night.
In one of the rare moments when my mouth is shout, I remembered something I read online (where else?). In a TED talk on vulnerability, Brene Brown said this memorable phrase: “Maybe stories are data with a soul”.
That’s it, I am trying to inform, I first told myself quite contentedly. Words can mean anything, but I am giving the world, or to whoever is unfortunate enough to initiate a conversation with me, a lot of data about myself. Soul included.
Contentment gave way, very soon afterwards, to a deeper realization. This data transfer, very much like a download that the receiving party cannot stop, must have only one driving force: fear of death. I suddenly felt very sad. And fell quiet. Nothing like the big finale to put things in perspective.
I had been afraid that I was quickly running out of time and one day (that’s a certainty) I would just go in a puff of last breath and a bit of wailing around me. So I was trying to plant seeds of myself in other people’s memory, hoping for a life extension. I’ll never know if it works.
