Talking to myself

My kitchen, office, dining room and living room are all one big room. The kitchen hides behind an island counter. Sometimes when I'm working something out in my head I'll get up from my desk or the table and start walking the circle around the island. I'll start talking about whatever it is that I'm trying to remember or figure out as if I am lecturing someone about something.

Sometimes my train of thought circles around a lot and other times it wanders very far away. Neither is a particularly bad thing. When I repeat myself often it's never exactly the same. The phrasing changes, or the specifics that I bring in are different, as if I'm talking to a completely different imaginary person.

I can spend up to four hours at a time doing this, talking myself hoarse. It's something I've always done, though since I moved out it's gotten worse, due to the lack of genuinely bored people having to listen to me as I explain something completely random that they weren't particularly interested in in the first place. Walls don't interject.

These monologues might make for interesting blog posts but I just can't seem to recreate them in writing. When I got home today it was something to do with the differing levels of comfort people have with different topics and disclosures with reflection on a conversation in the car ride home from school with a classmate of mine that I met five weeks ago who talks in a very open and endearing way about a lot of things that most people you've just met just don't disclose like vibrating tongue attachments for fellatio >> homogenization of ethnic groups in mainstream media >> is the building beside the Dairy Queen an Ismaili mosque? It has no signage. Who do I know who would know? >> the differences in concept of Canadian citizenship between my parents' generation (Expo 67, Centennial, cowichan sweaters, ookpiks etc.) and mine. Something like that.

None of this is particularly exciting. What's more exciting? Today I saw a blind woman walking down the street with one of those special braelle typewriters and at first I thought that was a little out of the ordinary but then I thought why wouldn't a blind woman be carrying a braelle typewriter down the street?

I'm "gifted." How can you tell?