Get into my head – get out of my car (apologies to Billy Ocean)!

Child psychologists recognise a developmental stage in very young children where they cannot lie. At this stage, children believe that what is in their head is also in yours – you know what they know.

While this is true for some parents – you know how mums just sometimes know? – children learn reasonably quickly that they can hide things from you and are able to lie outright pretty quickly, which is a bit of a shame, really. But wouldn’t this perceived shared understanding actually be helpful in some cases?

Imagine being unable to explain to someone how you feel, really feel, but that’s ok, because they already know. They have that access to your head. Obviously, this is not something you’d want ALL the time, but imagine the freedom of not having to explain the back story to your situation.

Possibly, for introverts at least, this seems a good thing, something they don’t naturally do. But for extroverts like me, we want you to know EVERY LAST DETAIL of the story, all the tiny bits and pieces that made up our life as we came to this place. You can’t just know where we are now, but you must want to know (well, we want you to know) all of the bounces and reflections, like a pinball machine that dropped us through the bottom and popped us back up to the new starting position.

I often find that I’d love to have that insider knowledge when I’m listening to someone else and wondering what they’re thinking. I interrupt too often, derailing the flow of their story because I want more information. For introverts, this can be incredibly distracting and irritating. I try not to do it, but I’m trying to be an active listener!

What technology would you devise to share this headspace info? What about a cloud above the speaker’s head? Like a video screen? A chip in yours that bluetooths their information to your head immediately? Nothing? You don’t want anyone to know those thoughts? What about a grip like a Vulcan Mind Meld? Google glasses? It could be interesting, don’t you think?

In imagination,

Eski

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