somnambulism

It has been unearthed in recent events and conversations that I find a little of myself in all the friends I make, at the very least a common interest or activity. Very queer but the evidence only seems to prove the theory: in one, a long-abandoned quest for social acceptance (which slowly fell apart when we did); in another, an ungovernable bastardly streak… the list goes on. There is the friend who echoes my interest in poetry, or maybe just the smell of fresh (book) leaves in rainy afternoons; the one who wears his comical nature like a mask, also friends with the other one who shrouds her introversion with hilarious amiability. One prizes solitude above all else, one destresses by pressing buttons on sheened mechanical confidants, one lives vicariously through on-screen characters (which, being fictional, have at least the satisfaction of knowing that their own problems will inevitably be resolved; their personality defects nothing more than quirky plot devices), one likes talking in noble floaty generalities, etc.

Maybe we all are puzzles which our closest friends unwittingly try to solve

(4:04 am)

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