Fiction: The Zilch by Salvatore Difalco

Photo Source: Unsplash

The Zilch

I suspect the man lacked an inner monologue. When I spoke to him he listened and responded normally. I could not question this aspect of him. But during pauses in our colloquy, his face—his unblinking eyes—betrayed no indication that he was actively thinking of something. He almost seemed to turn himself off when not engaged. Not that he slumped over or closed his eyes. He just stood there, still as a statue but for his rising and falling chest, evidencing the efficacy of his unconscious processes. As for an inner monologue, I thought it best to ask him directly if he experienced such a thing. According to the latest studies—albeit drawing from a small sample—up to third of human beings experience no inner monologue. Was this good or bad? I lived a life mired with a clanging and at times crippling self-consciousness. I couldn’t shut it off. My inner monologue never shuts the fuck up. And while I could not imagine a life without that inner babble accompanying my every action, what would it be like not to have it? “It’s like being in a cornfield,” the man said, staring nowhere and offering zero elaboration.

Salvatore Difalco is a Sicilian Canadian poet and short story writer and the author of five small press books, including Black Rabbit & Other Stories (Anvil Press). His short works have appeared in many print and online journals. He lives in Toronto.