They talk, I am listening, listening, listening. They tell me how
they live, what their plans, dreams and moods are. They tell me about
their children, parents and friends, how their children, parents and
friends live and in what mood they all are. They tell me also about
some quite unknown for me people and I am listening about those
people's plans, dreams and moods, and it seems to me that the world is
overpopulated and oversaturated with emotions, and I have to provide
the exit for all that fullness like a special computer or a
lightening-conductor, or they all will split their sides with
overfilling or will go mad,and nobody cares what is happening
meanwhile with my head.
They bother me all the time, they call me on different trifles,
they share that they have lost a finger-ring or ask me to measure the
TV diagonally to decide if such a TV fits their furniture. They
consult and complain for a long time and again I listen to them
patiently, I have only to sigh with releif, having finished the
conversation, when they call back again to inform me that at last they
have found their finger-ring in their deep-freezer in the box of
meat-balls.
They impart their innermost secrets to me. They tell me the story
of their forbidden love, the story of their rushing betweet duty and
passion, not forgetting to describe in details what is happening
during all that with their ego, and I am listening about their ego
with a special respect being not quite sure if I generally own such a
thing myself.
They love to talk with me about their financial problems, they
tell me how hard it is to make as much money as it is necessary, how
difficult it is to fight with taxes, circumstances and debts and again
I listen to them sympathetically, nod and take their problems,
circumstances and debts with big understanding absolutely forgetting
for what a great amount they are in debt to me.
Sometimes, seldom, I also wish to share, and having found a
moment when thinking about their problems they keep silence awhile, I
just open my mouth to tell them about my innermost secrets too. But
having just started I notice how their faces immediately become bored,
how their eyes grow dim, how impatiently they wait for a pause to get
a word in and to continue their interrupted topic, and unable to bear
their sufferings I confusedly fall silent and the mechanism "they
talk, I am listening" is started up again.
But when it is more than I can stand, when I become mortally
tired because of my crazy life and of all that information pouring in
me by a continious flow, when my want to unbosom myself becomes
irresistible I will take a blank sheet of paper, I will write on it
how I live, what my plans, dreams and moods are, I will describe all
the trifles of my being and also all that innermost and secret that is
happening with me, I will describe my financial problems, not received
debts and complicated circumstances, I will enclose that sheet in the
envelope, I will write a made-up, not existing address on it and will
leave the return address blank and, having sealed the envelope, I will
drop it into a Post Office mailbox.
And having imagined how it will travel around the world, I will
sigh, smile and very soon will be ready again to listen to anyone.
