I’m sitting in a café in a tired suit. My hair and makeup are all messed up, and I am carrying a huge computer, preparing for work tomorrow. This is how I live my life.

I skip from story to story, listening to the fragmented confessions of strangers. Perhaps I am a slutty priest, secretly finding joy in learning the truths of others. But it has to be insignificant, not a masterpiece, because whoever thinks their words are worth publishing has an ego far larger than most souls. I like humble souls, muttering their stories without reason. I enjoy imagining what it’s like to live as someone else. Honestly, anything sounds better than my own life. I spend most of my time contemplating, observing, trying to understand reality.

My words don’t reach most people. I don’t even try. At least, that’s how it feels. And even if they did, I wouldn’t pay much attention. Some people, for some reason, start to adore me, as if they’ve discovered something rare. But even then I feel misunderstood.  Am I? One of a kind?

No. Everyone is.

It’s just that no one cares enough to touch their own truth.

So instead of trying to understand me, understand yourself.

And I am in love anyway. At least that’s how I feel in this moment.

I imagine what it’s like to have sex with him during work. What is it like? Will he read my mind and do it exactly as I wish. No it's not going to happen like that, he could never read my mind. 

And the conversation? Ah, that sounds too boring. I’ve always strived to find men who want to have a conversation, and now that I’m in love, I don’t even care to have one. Love can exist without words. So just be with me in silence.