If I could tell you what makes me this way I might tell you about some trauma. You might too. You might even tell me about a rape, a beating, a break-up, a dissapointment. You might tell me about a great joy, a drunken night when the direction of your thoughts just changed for the better. A love, a big love or the death of your grandfather. And if you should ask me the same I may tell you about the two deaths in my college dorm, or Charlie, or the loss that left a young man in jail for two years and a mother not able to get past it. I might tell you about even more than that. I might tell you about betrayal or terrible fear, awful shame or the castle in Naples. Then I may ask you to be silent.
Why? What comes next?
Several things. Maybe love.
There you go again.
We know by now that trauma is latent. I am surviving.
Ruminating more like.
Am I? (fear) No, surviving.
Wait till it hits your person. Big fists full of fun.
It has already.
Has it?
It has. I wear it like a pleasure shawl.
(silence)
Fuck the interlocutor.
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