Do you isolate? Do you manufacture your own loneliness? Do you surround yourself with people so selfish, so self absorbed, that you might as well be alone? Or are you yourself the selfish, self absorbed one?
Do you examine all your own bad behaviour, actual and potential, to see what stories you might wring out of it? Do you store up the slights, the dismissals, the hurt and harm you perceive in the words and actions of others? Do you wreak a kind of revenge, in your own head at the very least?
Do you wish you had never met whichever significant other you currently dally with, and at the same time wallow like a hippo in the physical presence they place in the room? Are you secretly pleased that you’re not actually alone?
I would like to meet you. We could be disgustingly depraved together. Our dysfunction could be sublime, each feeding off the other, churning out words. You could put them to music. I could fill a book. Or a small pamphlet at least.
Attack Decay Sustain Release. What else is life about, if not that? How else do we envelope ourselves in meaning?
Answers on a postcard.