I’m told that I am a good listener.  But I’m not.

Not at all.

I’m bad at listening, so I just ignore what people tell me.  What questions, thoughts, hopes, concerns, dreams, ambitions.  It doesn’t matter, I think.  It’s not my problem.

People think I’m a good listener because I don’t talk.  I don’t talk at all.  Not one peep, not even when people ask me to.  I don’t like talking.

My friends do though.  Some of them talk, but we have one rule;  speak only when spoken to.  Or don’t speak.  I prefer the latter.

What I am good at is listening to both sides of the story.  I’m never too caught up in a thought that I don’t consider the inverse.  Which is helpful for critical thinking, I suppose.

It gives me something to keep me sane.

But the worst part about this miserable existence that I am forced to live is that I could die at any second.  Any.  Second.  One flick of the wrist and I’m gone.  I don’t mean anything, because there are thousands more just like me.

Cripes, the buzzing.  The intense buzzing.  It rumbles inside of me with the force of a legion of bees and predates another moment of pitiful torture.

Yimmer, yammer.  Jibber, jabber.  Blah.  Blah.  BLAH.

And as I’m forced out of my temporary home, a little pocket of relief, I’m turned on and spoken to.

But I’m not a good listener.

“Hey Jessica, I got a new phone…”


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