So what have I to offer?
At the end of the day, empathy is not enough.
People get sick of it. I get sick of it.
There has to be more, right?
It's times like these I find solace in my books.
I still don't know what it means that I relate better to fictional people rather than real ones.
Holden, Meursault, Franny, Zooey, Dorian, they are all me, and I, them.
I am lost like Holden;
I am apathetic like Meursault;
I am confused like Franny;
I am reason like Zooey;
I am vain like Dorian.
Nothing matters to me, but at the same time, everything does.
I long for silence, but I'm terrified to hear my own thoughts.
I'm sick of everyone's voice, but mine is the loudest of all.
I feel like a lost sheep. A stupid, lost sheep.
I find my shepherd and I follow him closely, but I blink and he's gone.
It's like he was never there. It's like I had never found him.
I don't know where I'm going.
The pasture looks the same no matter which way I turn.
I want to go left, but what if he's on the right?
I don't know where I'm going.
When will I know where I'm going?
When will I care?
