Here I am. Am I here? YOU KNOW IT!
“If you are content to remain in the a priori idea, and enjoy your own feelings without finding any basis for it in reason or any verification in experiment, you are a poet; you venture upon hypotheses which you cannot prove; you are struggling vainly in a painful indeterminism, and in a way that is often injurious.” - Emile Zola, The Experimental Novel
I am so fucking sad. I am so fucking angry. I am so scared. I am so fucking totally lost.
There, I said it.
For what, for why, for how, for who, where am I?
My parents never wanted to understand their children, we were only to be placated, disciplined and sometimes tickled to a smile. I never wanted to understand my parents; nothing they did made any sense. Where did they go, what did they think? Why didn’t they care? How did they ever feel?
Now, I find myself desperate to be read - to throw myself on the floor and cry until someone picks me up and holds me. Hell, I’ll even take the awkwardly public reprimand.
Yet I am misunderstanding everybody left and right. I grab the head out of your hand to free it for mine. WHOOPS.