I don't recall feeling this alone or isolated before. Yet I'm the one locking myself up in obscure rooms in the castle at odd hours of the morning. I don't know what I'm trying to escape, what I'm trying to avoid. I wish I knew. Sometimes the workings of my own mind baffle me.
I suppose I miss the way things were last year. Granted, I was just as miserable then as I have become now, but at least then Sartre was always around to keep me company. I haven't written him in over a month, and the last communication I got from him was when he wrote to me telling me that he wasn't dead anymore. Lovely, Sartre, thank you for keeping me up to date with the goings-on of your life. I feel very in the know-how now. Wasn't I the one writing to you ever day during my last bout of depression over Blaise and Abner? God. You almost threatened me with castration when I didn't tell you my father came to the school once. And now you 'forget' to tell me that you died?
I should be more grateful. He let me stay in his apartment over the summer when I had that falling--God, I'm not going to think about that again. All I can think about is how much I miss people. I'm not used to missing people. I want Famke. We spent all of five minutes together the other day, and every time we're together I get the feeling that he loves me because I'm some novelty, something new and different. We don't talk. I want to talk, I want to think, I want to be questioned. I want to smile because something amuses me, not because I hope it garners the same response out of the person I care about.
Jesus. If I believed in you, I'd be praying pretty damn hard right now for you to send me some sort of miracle. Company, at the very least. Preferably Famke. We have to talk, communicate, something.
I love him to death, but sometimes I wonder if he isn't stuck in some idealistic little world inside his own head.
-David Thoreau Vanet
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