I rember being painfully shy. I really wanted to interact with people, but not so intimately with most of them. When I was around 5 or 6 we were free-camping in an isolated beach and the only other kid my age was a boy who I didn’t like so much. He always cheated, but I forced myself to sit and play with him. I was really polite and didn’t complain, but at some point he cheated again and I raised a huge rock, which was sitting next to me and let it drop on his hand. I can still remember what the sea and the sky looked like. I had actually broken his arm.
There are so few people I truly fully care about and I never understood how people can scatter their feelings and words everywhere, but I do what everyone else is doing anyway with the only difference I find it so ridiculous that I always do it with a sense of sarcasm. I’ve made a lot of people angry because of that, even good friends, but you know I don’t always like to explain, when I love someone I allow them space in good faith. It’s funny because those people I truly care about I say less to, because I care about every word being serious and depictive of reality or put with a sense of courtesy.
Why do we like being so crammed inside and outside? Why do we care about all those pointless people who pass us by and all they want is to not be alone? There’s so much mess in the world, it stops you from being able to think, but inside there’s some order. Well actually it’s mostly a mess there too, but occasionally you know there’s need for a refreshing maintenance clean-up… More like constantly actually. So much dust in the house and our minds, where does it come from, is the world disintegrating?
And then you talk to someone you really like and it seems like structure is created from the dust and that’s when life has a meaning.