I had a disheartening train of thought recently, that I don’t feel like anyone really listens to the things I say. Say, as in voice, when I speak, the words that come out of my mouth. Sure, I know that I’m often accused of mumbling, that I clearly must have some sort of mush-mouth, and it makes me self-conscious when I speak, and I sometimes catch myself trying hard to enunciate everything with more fervor than the average speaker probably does.
Regardless of my shitty-sounding voice, sometimes I get in my head that I don’t think anyone’s listening. People will indulge me and grant me their immediate attention when words are coming out of my mouth, but I don’t frankly think many people actually listen, care, or are really actually paying attention.
I understand that we all as people have a million things going on, and I get that sometimes these things occupy a tremendous amount of space in our heads. I grew up with probably what would be diagnosed as ADD as a kid, and got my ass beat by my mom because I had difficulty listening and paying attention. Whether it was through overcompensation, the fact that it might not actually be a real ailment, or my general wanting-to-please-others mentality, I think that I’ve become quite a decent listener to what other people have to say, but especially lately I don’t feel that such courtesy is reciprocated on a pretty wide scale.
My own parents don’t really listen to me, and in spite of how often they ask me to do their menial correspondence for them, the instructions that I give that might just actually make their lives and my life a little bit easier are often times construed as suggestion, and I, or my sister have to end up doing them anyway. Neither of them could tell anyone what I’m currently into, what kind of car I drive, and have shreds of doubt when it comes to recollecting how old I am.
Those whom I speak with often, I feel like I bore with the things I bring up, because I know that I have a tendency to latch onto particular topics for periods of time, like how much I hate new stadium constructions, the amusement I get out of Hulk Hogan taking down Gawker, and the varying degrees of fucking up the City of Atlanta seems to do on a regular basis. Yes, I talk about things like such, because they interest me, and I might just actually want to talk about them.
I bring them up in conversation because it sometimes feels like nobody else wants to speak, to converse, to communicate. I’m putting myself out there, because I want to engage other people, have conversations, stimulate my brain potentially. And lately, it just all feels for naught, because whether I’m a boring person, or everyone’s heard everything I’ve already said before at some point, I’m just getting the impression that nobody gives a fuck about anything I have to say. I get accused of being ‘obsessed’ with topics, or have people try and finish my stories and diatribes for me, because they know they’ve heard similarly from me before.
This is probably a contributor to why I’ve shied away from social media recently, and turned my back on writing gigs in the past. It’s exasperating when you put yourself out there, only to either fall on deaf ears or blind eyes, or when people are only waiting for you to put points out there, and only are willing to counterpoint, instead of actually putting out their own points themselves.
Nobody wants to create content, but everyone is quick to argue it. I don’t believe the world should operate that way; if you can’t catch, don’t pitch, if you can’t cook, stay out of the kitchen, and other similar anecdotes.
When I feel that others are tired of hearing about the things that interest me, I have a tendency to go silent. Think about them instead. Formulate words in my head that I can write out in text, and push them onto a brog that only six people care to read.
I write because when the thoughts in my head are snuffed out in vocal form, they can never be snuffed out in written word. They never go away regardless of if people listen or actually care when I say them. When I write, I don’t have anyone telling me I’m obsessing, or that they’ve heard the story before. When I write, I don’t have to feel conscious that I’m boring anyone, because when the day is over, what’s great about words is that it’s completely voluntary whether another human being wants to read them or not.
Sometimes, the mythical six people are the only ones that I find solace in; I may not know who they are, why they’re so silent, but as long as it feels like anyone is listening, anonymous and quiet as they may be, it feels like my words aren’t a total waste.
