Maybe I'm born with it, maybe I just like the sound of my own voice
Ramadan ego battles, unfinished letter #21
Attention is a drug.
I can convince myself it’s necessary, beneficial even. Your voice is important. Your voice has been undermined for decades, I tell myself. But is it my voice, specifically, that this is about?
It’s the day before Ramadan and I’ve just left the office for the weekend. But instead of going straight to the train, I’m looking for a spot to start a Live video.
I’ve read a piece about Ramadan nostalgia1 that hit me in the heart, and now my creative synapses are firing.
I want to talk talk talk.
If I’m being totally honest, I’m still riding the high of my Live with
earlier in the week. I’m good at talking, I think. Maybe I’m even clever (UGHHH). Maybe I’m even entertaining (CRINGE).My fingers are freezing. My gloves are supposed to work with the phone but they don’t. I let the cold sink in as I try various locations, holding the camera up, my screen reflecting my face back at me. Have I always looked this old? How is it there are lines around my mouth?
The higher I hold the phone, the less jowly my chin is. But also, the higher I hold the phone, the more my arm sends ping after ping of pain up to my shoulder.
All of this should be enough of a hint to stop, and yet somehow I am still determined to get on that screen and bask in the love and attention I am sure will await me. But wait… What if it doesn’t? What if no one joins? What if I’m talking to myself?
And then there is the inner whisper I’m shushing.