Her Inner Dialogue

An inner voice narrated her life; It began to chronicle every happenstance, each ordinary event as if there were indeed a story unfolding toward a nagging judgement of her being. It chastised, painted her as a victim. The Teller had always related her biography, as a subdued commentary, but now it openly opined upon every irrelevant misstep. It began to take upon itself an authorship she had let slip from her mind. The voice itself became a thing apart, the woman blushed as if she had been discovered speaking naked behind an invisible microphone. She hoped that inner voice would one day convince her that she was really smart and beautiful. It never did. I warned her to change that voice for we all have the power to do so, yet she kept listening to its carping speech and claimed to hear none other.