When I'm muttering to myself.

I’d like to try writing a novel. Of someone spending an entire life muttering to himself. That would be the easy way. From beginning to end. That’s all he did. Mutter to himself. Even when he appeared to be talking to other people, he’d be muttering to himself. That was his entire life. It’d be an easy thing for me to do. Because I’ve mastered the art of muttering/talking to myself. No matter where I am. I can be in a crowd of people. Or even with my true love. And choose to mutter. Of course, I don’t always do it. I genuinely talk to others. And listen, too. But I’m capable of muttering away. At any time. Of my choosing. I suspect that I was even muttering the moment I squeezed out of the womb. Did it. Unconsciously. Naturally. Profoundly. Maybe my novel could be classed a muttering autobiography. A fictional one. Because it really didn’t happen. But still, very much lived. By me. I delve into my being. More than into others. Because I’m inside myself. I have mutteriung conversations with me. Brilliant stuff, if I may say so. Modestly.  Because that’s what I tell myself. And I’m capable of believing anything. Even in the impossible. I have no limits. That is, when I'm muttering to myself. –Jim Broede