Weird voices. Everyone has them. Even if you’re the type of person that will never ever attempt a British accent in public, you’ve done it in the privacy of your own home. You speak in a terrible Jamaican accent in the morning when you’re looking for your keys (or maybe that’s just me). But when you struggle with a tough decision, or consult your conscience, is it your own voice talking back to you? Mine isn’t. In fact, there’s more than one voice.No, I’m not schizophrenic, nor do I have some sort of multiple personality disorder. And no, I’m not talking about an inner-narrator that comments on every little thing that occurs around me. Plainly, when I’m weighing out tough decisions, James Earl Jones is there, advising me on the best option. Actually, it’s not James Earl Jones, as much as it is Mufasa.
I know, James. I know.
What? You can’t tell me if you had an important decision to make, you wouldn’t want the original king of Pride Rock guiding you in the right direction. It’s no contest. Just imagine when you messed up: “You deliberately disobeyed me! And what’s worse? You put Nala in danger!” Ok, maybe it’s not completely apropos for the situation, but you get the idea.
The other voice isn’t my conscience, but rather what I hear whenever I’m reading a book, or studying something. A lifetime’s worth of HBO Sports Documentaries have forever etched the alto-smooth timbre of Bob Costas in my brain.
Whether I’m reading up on standard deviations of depressive symptoms in patients or finding out what lays in wait for Lisbeth Salander, it’s good ol’ Costas giving the play-by-play. But lately, Gus Johnson has been making a strong case. I feel like just walking to my car in the mornings would be more epic if it were commentated like this:
Oh, and just because this is a post about voices in one’s head:
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