For the first time in my life, I openly talked to myself in public today. Out on the street, surrounded by fierce New Yorkers, and somewhat clueless tourists, I started to feel a little bored. It was the typical boredom of an intern—a general malaise brought on by menial task execution, comingled with overly tight jeans on a hot day. I didn’t say anything particularly interesting. Just a few remarks about my interest in reading and love of books, after taking a quick nip into Rizzoli.
I feel like the streets of New York are the most ideal place in the world to talk to one’s self. Sometimes my brain works too much. Thinking, spinning, overlapping, nearly overriding. It verges on a ghastly aneurysm nearly once a week, or ultimately manifests itself in a complete and utter tantrum.
Speaking out loud felt good. I kind of get why people do it, and I don’t really think it’s that crazy or wacky or whatever. It’s cathartic to be heard. To occasionally escape your own headspace. Even if it’s just a random passerby—a business woman rushing from her morning SoulCycle to work, some guy selling fruit on the sidewalk—at least someone heard you today. Even more so, it gave me the power to hear myself.
I’m a writer, and a thinker by nature, and having that time to gather my thoughts, to speak them aloud or take pen to paper, that’s how I process.
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