The Final Word!

I’ve heard it said; talking to yourself is a good thing to do, because you need to hear someone intelligent every now and then. According to Dr. Linda Sapadin, Ph. D, talking to yourself can even make you smarter. If you do it right.

maninmirrorTommaso Lizzel
by Tommaso Lizzul

I’m limited by some self-beliefs. These beliefs have a language. It’s not the language of love. It can never build me up. If I speak to others, the way I sometimes speak to myself, I would be socially inept. My inner dialogue is my private chat room. I’m the only member. I should be able to control the one-way conversation. But I can be unfriendly toward me. I talk over myself. Even after I say, be quiet. How rude?

The most consistent voice I hear is my own. I need to learn to talk. To me. Respectfully. Talking to others will be a no-brainer.

Easier said than done. Beliefs have roots. Roots wag the tongue. My public persona doesn’t work in private. When I’m alone I can abuse myself. I say things I would never say in mixed company. My words have power. Especially to me. Power to bring life. Or death. I can heal or wound – me. With the words of my own mouth.

Where did I learn to talk this way? Is it my native tongue? Or a foreign language I picked up? I did a little investigation. Guess what? I speak both. Fluent in each. The Good News is this; if I can learn to talk at all I can learn to speak correctly. To myself. In public. In private. I can be polite, good natured, and well spoken when I talk to me.

Grammar is good. Pronunciation is helpful. But not as much as intention. I cannot talk without purpose. Not even when I work hard to say nothing. Words matter. Regardless of  how their colored. Negative phonetics last. Too long sometimes. Our minds can play them over and over again. Sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me. Right! And the tooth fairy is really a candy salesman.

Harsh words leave scars. Destroy well-being. Misshape identity. Make trust improbable. More important, they form speech patterns. Habits. Names and labels create mental images. Authors, speech writers, and public speakers use words as tools to lead people to a point of view. Words are not impotent. They don’t die at the tip of the tongue. They become real forms. You’re able to see their bodies in the people who live out their affects.


Words are all about what you’re thinking. You might be reserved in a controlled environment. Add a little pepper and you might go to sneezing. Spewing out discoloration from emotional congestion. We’ve all been wounded. Not exactly the same. We all deal with it. But not the same way. You should be over that by now. Who said that? Not someone like me. If you were like me – you wouldn’t be over it either. Just more words that make my load heavier.

Okay. So I’m not alone in my private chat room. Voices from lovers and haters exercise free speech. Often setting no one free. Not even themselves. Pounding and whispering without a day off. I agree. Sometimes. For awhile. But not really. I want to talk. To be heard. I want my words to be first. I can’t get the words out. You’ll have to hear what I’m not saying. I understand. You can’t hear me because you’re talking. You want to be heard too. 

I’m a transplant. Cut down in my infancy. Replanted in a field of broken dreams. I speak the lingo. Being told how I should talk didn’t change my inner voice. Shaming me backfired. My passion went rogue on me. Turned into anger. My intensity drowned out the quiet voice within. Pulling me back to original intent. Where love spoke first. Uninterrupted. Causing me to grow. Flourish. And smoke the peace pipe.

I’m born to imperfection. Which is omitted  by most. Unless it becomes convenient. Then by all means, let’s get real. Denial almost worked. The failure’s my fault. My eyes anyways. If I could have just kept them closed. But my heart is too hungry. I hit the wall that shouldn’t have been there. Or maybe I’m the one out of place. The crash is meant to be fatal. A little heart resuscitation, and speech therapy, and I can see. Not again. For the first time. From the pure root.

How long do life-giving words endure? you ask. The length of my agreement, of course. I’m sustained by harmony. Shattered by inner dissension. I lie against the truth. Once in a while. Way to often.

I desire to be authentic. To be in alignment. I do well. Then I start talking smack. I say things unmerited. You buffoon – good things aren’t for you.  Pain joins in. Joy protests. The vicious circle must end. I want to get off. I have to get off. I can’t. I keep it going. Until I stop. Then I am off.

gavel salfalko
by salfalko

This is said to me and it hurts. That’s said to me, and it feels good. Talk is cheap. Never! There’s ever a price. Words aren’t capable of being void. They return with what they were sent to do. Good ole intention, again. Titles spoken over me. Positions declared. Torn down. Built up. Made hopeful. Hope gets taken away. Everybody talks. Who’s saying anything? Of value? Or virtue?

What do you say? about who you are. What do you speak? to you. Careful. You’re effective. On purpose or not. What you say is important. To you. Protect yourself.  You never miss a word. You hear it all. Does your self-talk free you?

What you say about you – That’s the final word!!! – don’t let it be fatal.

I have to go now. Got to take out the trash!








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