Somewhere,
people are talking for hours. Somewhere, people are interesting. Somewhere I’m
not.
Blaming
others in this feels petty. It’s too easy. Others are none of my doing or
responsibility. To talk, no— to converse, is to be alive. So, I suppose, I am
guilty of a daily suicide. Carpe diem? If only someone would write a book about
it…again. I should probably go talk to someone. That is the first step to
conversing, after all. But these steps sound exhausting. I’ll just blame
others.