Memories come as text clouds. They plop at the moment I feel relaxed. Or at the moments I gaze. The text clouds has varicosity of colours. What colour it is, is in the hands of the subject. I regularly catch myself that I am talking to myself. Maybe you recognize it? Then I am musing about a certain topic. About a part from my one-page-stories or about something that happened. For me it is a choice about driving at the left or right side from the road. Maybe I doubt too much but I think not. It is my way to make the right choice.
‘MC, do you want to go with her?
‘Of course I want to join her.’
‘Yes, but I am afraid.’
‘Shall I come walking from the left?’
‘Or shall I come walking from the right?’
‘Do I really have to write those notes?’
‘Or shall I ask someone else to do it for me?’
‘MC, is it a wonder she is screaming?’
‘No, it isn’t but I don’t want to understand.’
‘What will be the name of the castle. I’ve no idea.’
‘Will it be Black Tower, Clouds Tower or Qewichelhorst?’
If I have to say it is a bit funny to be in a conversation with myself. It help me to make a wise choice. It can be scared to speak out loudly what you think. At least it gives me a good feeling. Although sometimes people look weird to me because I am muttering. Sometimes that happens. I mutter what I think. Quickly take a notebook because a brilliant idea comes to my mind. It happens a lot that my thoughts slips away. Just into my pillow.
I see thoughts as an inexhaustible source of words and sentences. I like it to play with that. Thoughts come and go. A conversation with yourself can be confronting, but it is not necessary. I often find it very funny to see what my thoughts entail. It is my weapon of good and bad. Just to sketch it. Like Albus Dumbledore said: ‘Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.’