I've decided that I talk too much.
Not to other people. I do that just fine, in my opinion. Not too much, and not too little. Just about right. It's another type of talking I'm referring to.
Talking to entities that aren't there, or can't understand me. For example...
God. Our dogs. My dead mother and father. The now-deceased guru I used to follow. Myself.
Now, I don't really believe that any of these entities can comprehend what I'm saying, either because they don't exist (God, dead mother and father, guru) or don't have the ability (dogs).
Myself is an interesting unique situation. I do believe that I exist, but I don't believe that I have a self which is different from me. Or my mind/brain.
So it's entirely mystifying that I talk to myself, both verbally and silently inside my head, when it sure seems that I and myself are the same entity.
Given this seeming fact -- and the notion that even if we aren't exactly the same, I and myself are so closely linked we're essentially one being -- I have no idea why I need to tell myself anything.
But I do. Out of habit. And because I enjoy doing this.
Which also explains why I talk to a God that I don't believe exists, and a mother and father who are dead and gone. I guess I like the feeling that I can communicate with them, even though I know this is a fantasy.
Increasingly, though, I'm feeling something else: silence is precious.
It puts me more in touch with reality. Especially when there isn't anyone around who I can actually talk with. Imaginary friends may be OK for children. But at my age, they are a distraction from what is real.
On today's sunset dog walk, I avoided saying anything to our two canines, Serena and Zuzu. The three of us walked along silently, except for one time when I had to whistle for Zuzu and call her name.
Dogs, of course, don't talk to each other. Our dogs rarely make sounds. Barking and whining is rare. Nonverbal communication is how Serena and Zuzu usually relate. I felt closer to them doing the same.
I also felt closer to nature. Being quieter inside my head tuned me in more to the world outside my head.
This being early November, geese were arriving at the community lake near our house, coming from a wildlife refuge where they feed during the day. Honking could be heard from various parts of the sky as geese groups flew over in their characteristic "V" shape.
Then more honking, after the geese settled down on the lake for the night. Sometimes they fly off when the dogs and I walk by on the lakeside path. Today they didn't. Maybe my silence changed things.
Regardless, it changed me.
I didn't stop thinking as I walked along, but my mental chatter was more focused. I thought about how ridiculous, albeit human, it is to engage in a one-sided conversation with imaginary entities.
So I said "goodbye" to them.
Can't tell whether this is a permanent farewell. Right now it feels like it is. I told my mother and father that naturally I wouldn't give up my memories of them, or feelings toward them. Those are real.
However, talking to them as if they could hear me, even while knowing this is impossible -- this now strikes me as something I don't want to do.
Not because there is anything wrong with it. I just no longer enjoy conversations with imaginary friends like I used to. Being scientifically-minded, I don't believe in anything with absolute certainty. At least, I try not to do this.
God could exist. The guru to whom I used to be devoted could still exist in some soulful form. Deceased relatives could also. Heck, I could even have a self.
But could is a long way from does and is. I'll be pleased to talk with anyone of a supernatural sort who wants to say hello. They will have to initiate the conversation, though. For now I'm done talking to entities who aren't there or can't understand me.
Well, except for our dogs. And likely myself. Those habits would be tough to break completely. I'll cut down on the unnecessary chatter, though.