I often think of the boys who were attracted to me simply out of the virtue that I was introspective and elusive. They didn’t want to be with me because of my questionable beauty, my wavering intellect, or my neutral morality. It was primarily because I was dramatic in my constant reflections. Everyone, regardless of their good or bad humour, has a place deep down in which they question their existence and their inherent value. The size of this place differs from person to person, but it is nearly always there, to even a minuscule degree. And here is me, who is nearly totally filled with this place, whose quotidian inner monologues consist almost solely of “Why am I alive?” and “Why won’t I die?” I suppose many people find refuge in someone whose very existence is defined in this questioning, and in a sense someone like me can reflect that loneliness and pain that is so common in everyone. Perhaps I am a temporary relief, a bandage for your loneliness. I am a form of comfort, of release, in your infrequent quests for appropriation. And yet, one can only be introspective for so long, and that is why people grow tired of me. Initially, I give an air of quiet desperation. Since with me, every moment seems to carry the gravity of eons of absolution. This adds virtue and magnitude to your being. But in the end, we all become exhausted with purpose. In the end, we all want the complacency of boredom. And that is why most people forget me after a while.
