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Who is doing the talking, who is the listener, when we talk to ourselves?

WWhat we do, or tend to do, with the thoughts we have but can’t agree with? 

Freud gave us a language to redescribe these moments of stray thought, these spots of distraught time, in which we are unable to pigeonhole and padlock our more disagreeable reflections:

we are as good as talking to ourselves because for some reason we can’t speak these thoughts to others. 

I  am being addressed, but who is addressing me? I am talking to myself but who exactly is doing the talking, the strangely silent talking we call thinking;

and who, perhaps more perplexingly, is the listener when we are talking to ourselves? 

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