I like people who say what they mean and, more importantly, mean what they say. As simple as it is in concept, there is a dearth of those like us here. This world, albeit complicated enough, is filled with many people, most of who rarely know to talk to each other. For a species whose existence depends solely on this, we are dreadful at it on most days and only moderately adept at it on good ones. I say spare each other the trouble and express what’s on your mind, but it is a big ask, as I am slowly learning.
It has come to my realisation that all my demands from the world are simple, and so, they are just. But as giving the world is, it cannot give us all we want. Thus far, most of this life has been a guessing game, and for all my talents, I am terrible at reading minds. I wonder how the others do it, and even more, I wonder if there is a reason they refrain from using the words they were so generously granted by a plethora of languages. There is no shortage of words—only of people who wish to use them. Most keep their words to themselves. What do they stand to gain from doing this? I will never know. What does anyone gain from anything they do? Nobody but they know it. It is not my concern that people are terrible at talking, but it is my pain, for I know only to waste words, to say a little bit more than is required, to say what I want and to state it clearly. I only wish others were like this, but that, too, is a flaw.
Between talking to the few people who I can talk to for hours without feeling an inkling of boredom, and those I meet and come across much more regularly, my disappointment in humanity grows evermore. Between these two ends, there is a cavernous gorge, and I sit at its edge, talking to myself, making up for how little most people offer, filling in the gaps, and conjuring narratives and jokes and stories.
Somewhere between all this, I write these words, which, in turn, mean everything and nothing at the same time, but I am always writing them. Sitting at this desk is but an afterthought.