For example, the floor might open up and swallow me up and that might, finally, be enough. Would that be what it takes to really be a part of something?

He is disappointed. It takes me a long time to guess at why, and even then I am tentative at the conclusion. Could it have been me that caused it? I don’t assign to myself the role of this power, I don’t assume it. And so, I almost disregard this possibility, but not quite. He reminds me an awful lot of someone. Sweet-natured, something gentle that could be hurt, that made me too remember to feel.

It hurts to see him disappointed. Is he disappointed in me?

There are others surrounding me, I was snatched up when he left the room and I was happy to be, I was relieved to be, so that when he came back he would remember that I was worth the attention. Their attention is over the top, and he couldn’t approach me. Then I saw him talking to a girl by the mirror, and then he was there five minutes later too, and it seemed 10 minutes after also.

He catches my eye. I can’t think of a way to break from these guys, or to interrupt him. It seems too awkward. In a moment, I sense, the conversation with the girl will get interesting enough that he will completely forget about me.

But I don’t care because I want him, or because I want to be attractive or because I want to win. I care to care, because I care about little in the world, shamefully, painfully little. Because of the miracle of life, the theoretical, less, hypothetical miracle of life, a skeleton of an idea, the flesh of which decayed long ago, that aches for the proof for this unproven theory, and rings out instead with the absence of miracle, the absence of life.

Life overflows with all the farces in the world. Achievement, reward, status, position, power. Employment, education, economy, politics, history. Skill, intelligence. But beyond that. Love, sacrifice, honour, honesty, kindness, morality, and the hypocrisies that call on them and use them as weapons against ourselves. The bigger it is, the bigger the lie.

And what is there to live for but for these moments when I feel something instead of nothing?

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