The Mouth That Won't Quit in Creative Writings; The Workings Of A Split-Level Brain

He's talking. He's always talking. He never shuts up. Never mind that he isn't saying anything that means anything; he just keeps talking. That there is no substance to what he says doesn't matter. Oh, please shut up. Please just shut the hell up. I can't take this anymore.

I remain silent, keeping my annoyance to myself, and he keeps talking, on and on and on and...

Please shut up...

I stand at the counter, refilling two cups of coffee. He wants more cream. HE wants more sugar. I regard both as an insult to the coffee. Coffee was meant to be consumed and enjoyed unadulterated, without additives or fillers, ike cream, and sugar. That's just my opinion, and I keep it to myself, because even if I said something, even if I managed to interrupt him, he wouldn't hear me what does it matter? Even when he's not speaking, which is not very often, he's not listening. He never listens to me. I don't take it personally; he never listens to anyone.

He was a proverbial stray dog. Stray dogs have always been attracted to me. I'm not sure what it is about me; I'm not exactly all that approachable, but they find me, and they follow, as if I were some sort of magnet for them. I do have a kind heart, though, and I let them follow. I take them in. I treat them well. They stay. Sometimes they stay a little too long, wearing out their tentative welcome. He was one of those. I took him in when he needed me, not out of duty, but because for some reason I cared about him. Something about him made me care about him, and I took him in, and he never went away. They seldom do. ,

It wasn't long before the talking started. Clear out of the blue it began, and it hasn't stopped since, and here he is after all this time, the lover that won't shut up even long enough to make love in a way that feels even remotely satisfying, because he never shuts up. Pillow talk, political talk, whatever; he never stops. His mouth is continually on overdrive, which might not be a bad thing if his brain had something in it worth revealing, but it doesn't, ever.

And it's all pleonastic drivel, diffuse and sometimes unintelligible His aare the ramblings of a man possessed by too many talkative demons, and they energize and ennervate the man. He won't shut up, probably because he can't.

I put up with it, and I wonder why, at least I do when I can hear myself think, which isn't all that often these days.. Why I don't just kick his talkative ass to the curb is a mystery to me. I keep him. He satays. It's just how things are around here, and I've learned to live with it.

But there's a gu in the closet. I keep it on the top shelf, in a box, and the box is locked. I've never fired it, not even once, but still it's there. I know how it got there, but not why. He didn't bring it; the gun belongs to me, and so does the answer to why it's there, but I'm not telling, maybe because I don't remember, or maybe because I do and would rather I didn't. It's there, and I could use it if I just remembered how to undo the safety catch that I am certain is engaged.

And the talking would stop, forever. The only question I have is; would I silence him, or would I silence myself? What to do, what to do.

Such a messy proposition. Oh, what messy thoughts I have. Demons, coming out to play, and he keeps talking, which makes my demons angrier and louder, and the gun looks better all the time.

He wants more coffee. I want silence. Please go away, all of you.

It's endless, and it's hopeless, and I can't stand it, butI do. I do and I will. The gun will remain in the closet under lock and key, and my heart will ache for the day when he just shuts up all on his own, a day which may never come, because he never runs out of words. Just when it looks like his verbal well is empty, he finds some way to replenish it, and away he goes, again. Oh, my kingdom for an aspirin, or a sedative, or both. I need something, and I need it now, before the incessant talking melts my brain the way his doleful eyes melted my heart when I found him. Damn this gentle heart; it betrays my sanity every time...