I was talking to myself again. Which is not a surprising event. I did this quirky thing in my past life, but this time the urge grabbed hold of me, like an unwanted hand encircling my arm and squeezing.
It all started with my hotel room in Fuzhou. I started pontificating about the size of the bed, how large it was for one person. I gushed with adjectives describing the dressers. Modern and clean. Or the first efficient closet I encountered in China had me in paroxysms. The cleanliness alone was orgasmic. Oh, and the shower, the first one I felt comfortable enough in to not wear shower shoes. I rambled on about this startling discovery in extensive detail – to myself.
In the past, self-talk amounted to muttering under my breath if something displeased me, or cursing loudly in my car at the profound stupidity of Vancouver drivers.
The ghostly impression of that conversation in China haunts me, among other discoveries in the past six months.
I wrestled with a new kind of lonely, even seriously pondering changing my solo ways from one to two. I hashed out my discovery upon meeting travelers in the past year and witnessing their off-kilter, sometimes shocking behavior, questioning my very sanity. Have I changed for the better as I set out to do or have my worst traits suddenly become the forefront of my personality? Do I belch in people’s faces and laugh? Act seemingly normal one moment, then lash out with some paranoid rant about aliens and the pyramids? The prospect makes me shudder.
That wacky conversation with myself was a nail banging into the coffin of the horrible truth.