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…”