My Friend, Mr. Nobody

My Friend, Mr. Nobody

Observed on the street today: (1) an impossibly blonde woman with an impossibly wrinkled face leaning against a car, smoking a cigarette and having an animated conversation with no one at all; (2) a tall, doughy young man ambling down the sidewalk, pointing a finger in various random directions and quietly mouthing sentences. I suppose we all mutter to ourselves sometimes, at least internally. I know I do. But I don't talk to imaginary pals or adversaries "out there." Adults who do this are "crazy" by society's standards. Children can have invisible friends to play with or comfort them, but grown-ups can't (or shouldn't). And it's a shame, in a way. Think of how convenient it would be to have a companion who would pop up or disappear as needed, listen patiently to any sort of nonsense you care to spout and let you win all the arguments. We all need someone to talk to; otherwise our thoughts can only reverberate inside our own skulls--and that must be like living in a mirror-lined echo chamber. I suspect you would begin to wonder, after a while, if you really existed at all: an intolerable feeling. And so, those who are a bit "off" and have no one to talk to--or, at least, no one who will listen--conjure up an invisible confidant. That's my armchair speculation. And something else I wonder about: how therapeutic would it be to supply such people with blogs? Imagine a webring of schizophrenic bloggers, all ranting and responding and maybe even flaming each other. No, on second thought, I suppose that's just too far out a notion.
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