Santa's letter was sent on the wings and the underbelly of a paper airplane this year. It was sent way back in November, so when my daughter's letter from Santa came right away, and his did not, we worried that the plane got caught up in a jet stream diverting it far away from the North Pole. But, as it turns out, it made it there after all. He got a lovely response from Santa just last week.
We talk to ourselves everyday, all day (and night) for the whole of our lives. We started talking to ourselves before we knew we were a self, we forget what we said because we forget everything from before...when we were too young and busy developing our brain to remember those early years. There is still lingering residue of long forgotten conversations I have had with myself as a toddler sitting around in the crevices...sloughing off occasionally into words I tell myself still. We talk non-stop, and not just with dialogue. Our goosebumps communicate to us, our tingly feelings, our neurons, our peripheal vision. They are all submitting data into our self and expecting us to react, respond or all to often, expecting what they are sending us will be ignored. After all that talking, you'd think we'd know what we think about most things, but occasionally we are stumped. Unless we stop what we are doing and really concentrate sometimes that voice(s) ...
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