Sometimes I don't know why things are the way they are. And sometimes I care a whole lot more than I should, or could afford to.
I cannot be content with the answer "that's just the way it is". I know some things are just the way it is but surely brute facts have to start from somewhere. I'd settle with a paradox, throw me a circular argument. Give me anything but spare me a brute fact and a "just the way it is" thesis statement.
Please just bloody convince me.
I don't know why I need so much for someone to understand me. Not just make me feel better, not just make me 'happy' for the time being. But to truly, wholly, know exactly what I mean - in everything that I do and do not say. Maybe that's my checkpoint, much like a totem in Inception, to make sure that what I perceive can, in fact, be conceived.
How alone poets must feel. To have everyone tell him stories of himself, only to totally miss the point that no, my poem isn't about love, it's about how I lost my favourite felt pen one day and his name was Columbus. How dare you read any deeper into my thought process. You defile the very sanctity of imagination by fumbling with mine. How much more blunt do I have to be with you 'students of literature'?
How misunderstood we all make each other feel. What monsters we are for making each other feel that way.
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