little dewdrop,
hello, sweet friend, how are you doing? have you eaten?
do you remember the trending news a few years back, that ignited many an online discussion and pointed fingers, in which a study examined thoughts as inner monologues and found not everyone has a narrator? it showed we’re much more varied than we might have imagined as to how our thoughts appear to us—some with their voice in conversation or monologue, some with responsive images to every incoming situation, some with a combination of both, and others with no voice or imagery at all. where do you find yourself in the mix?
personally, I feel like a sorted bunch. my narrator often breaks a sweat in its dead sprint. sometimes it’s a warmth rubbing my shoulders when the day lies its full heaviness over my frame. a new problem leaves me speechless and my thoughts telophase into a team discussion; more roundtable than monologue at all.
if you have a narrator to your thinking, or if it’s the familiarity of your own voice sitting co-pilot through the day, how do you speak to you? who is speaking to you? what kind of storyteller do you have taking place? does it address you kindly? does it sound young and green to the world or a hoarse bellow, slick with sarcasm? maybe the longer you consider it, you recognize the same cadence in how your sister speaks; maybe the same tone of concern a trusted and supportive teacher showed.
while the longer I write these ramblings to you prove I’m no scientist, I’m wondering if we’re stuck with the voices we have forever or if there’s any musical chairs to be played. I know that I did not always have one strand of thinking in particular that has arrived in an entirely more comforting voice the longer I work at showing self-kindness in my mistakes or resting on harder days. an older, softer self that tuts when my reflection is tear-stained or my heartbeat threatens to outrun the local speed limit. and though I know it hasn’t always been there, I struggle to remember the details of inner dialogues I used to have, though I know they were, on the whole, more shadowed, grisly, and critical. a faint, but pressing whisper of “not enough” slipped in right before I fell asleep. a snarled voice and seeing red whenever I felt hopeless.
I think in reinventing this narrating—this thought structure—I borrowed from what felt like trusted guests I could welcome in. I’d mime my college best friend’s soothing, long exhale and closed eyes, or ask myself what felt good to my body in the tune of Yoga With Adriene. sometimes, in moments of embarrassment or wanting to be free in my self-expression, I’ll wiggle into the ferocity of confident friends I admire or replay Jenny Slate’s guileless, squeaky laughter.
in order to keep my thoughtspace from feeling like a boxing ring, my inner monologue has turned mosaic. I think that’s okay. part of me wishes that a loving narrator came more naturally, or earlier, or used my own voice all the time. the better half of me doesn’t care if I had to duct tape every observed sign of tenderness together, only that I found something that worked and brought me to a calmer rest point with myself. and while I can remember each origin of adopted benevolence, once my thoughts practice its shape and timbre long enough, it’s started to feel like me too.
I wonder, if you were to invite a softer voice in, what your mosaic might look like—the way a best friend hypes themselves up before an act of bravery, maybe a grandparent’s voice coated with pride. I hope it’s gentle, even funny at times. I hope that given some more use, that kindness starts to feel like it’s always belonged.
with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
venmo: schuylerpeck