He spent years assuming the voices were important. Not voices in the dramatic sense. Just the constant internal panel discussion that accompanies many through adult life. Imaginary interviews. Commentary. They told him why the audience had not applauded enough, why the email had not been answered, why the person across the room looked disappointed. A musician by trade, he was already trained to respect subtle signals. When the mind produced its own cues, he treated them like important musical information. The revelation came during a mediocre practice session. He was playing scales badly and simultaneously listening to his internal committee explain why his career stalled, why lunch had been disappointing, and why offhand remarks from 1997 still required emotional review. Then he stopped. The scales stopped. The thoughts did not. He noticed something obvious and shocking. The voices continued without any assistance from reality. They simply generated content like a radio station funded by anxiety. And yet he had treated them like dispatches from headquarters. He laughed. This offended the voices. They informed him quickly that laughing was avoidance, that perhaps he was regressing.

But now he saw the trick. The voices were not wise. They were not a council of elders. They were interns with access to the microphone. He began experimenting. When a voice announced, “Everyone thinks you failed tonight,” he would ask, “Name three people.” Silence. When another declared, “You have ruined your life,” he asked, “Compared to what data?” Crickets. When one whispered, “This thought is extremely important,” he would just make tea. The world did not collapse. Music improved slightly, not because the voices disappeared. They remained industrious but lost rank. He no longer confused volume and value. This may be one of the central tasks of adulthood. Realizing inner speech is just weather passing. Some useful, some decorative. Almost none sacred. He still got fooled sometimes. A dramatic thought would arrive in velvet robes, claiming urgency. He would believe it for an hour, maybe a day. Then he would remember. The mind loves costume but it don’t make it royalty.