notebook fragment
there would be days when it all seemed formally impossible, his hunger for human contact bordered by a quietly panicked knowledge that he'd have no idea what to do with it if it ever came his way. if he saw someone he knew on the sidewalk he would jolt in another direction. he felt instinctively unready for the enclosing membrane of his solitude to be pierced from without. inside he spoke with himself in a wordless language. he did not trust himself to speak fluently with others. he felt he would stumble like an actor over poorly memorized lines, who by his imperfect mastery of them exposes their artifice.
it was this exposure of artifice he feared the most. he did not trust in his ability to hold up his end of that implicit contract of casual conversation wherein both parties pledge to uphold the pretense of spontaneity. he did not trust himself to follow the prescription faithfully enough to make it appear unprescribed. he knew he would answer "fine" to "what's up?" or "not much" to "how are you?" and then the jig would be up. the theater of social interaction would be revealed irreversibly as such. the magic of spell of feigned spontaneity, which it was his responsibility to help preserve, would be broken. GAME OVER.