Lately, I have been missing small talk with strangers a lot. It always gave me a strange excitement (even though it was often followed by sadness) to get to know someone new—someone a stranger, but not just any stranger: the one stranger chosen by me to get to know. It was a mystery waiting to be exposed, a puzzle that needed to be put together.
And I made you, stranger. As I wrote eight years ago, with a small reference to a Sylvia Plath poem, in a notebook. I made you up in the version I found the most exciting. And the idea of you haunted me for a long time. I thought, as mentioned in Wuthering Heights: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” Yes, it was true—but only because you were actually a monstrous product of my own brain and self. Yet I still miss the excitement of my younger self trying to find someone to complete, to make.
I was often the disappointment, “a tease.” A young girl—basically a child—who, in essence, wished for nothing more than someone to talk to.
I guess it is good that I miss it. Missing mostly comes as a bonus to lacking.
"I shut my eyes, and the world drops dead."
...
05.04.2026
As the text is a bit older, I think it is necessary to make an addition to keep it up to date. As it has referenced Sylvia Plath a few times, I would also very much like to end it with another poem of hers.
" There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.'
