In the meanwhile, I have stop writing, there is nothing left to say. But I keep talking and waiting; there's nothing else that I can do, and I've tried too hard to find more answers. So I just sit and wait, thinking of what could have been and thinking of what I used to have.
Simplicity is something that I enjoy and I as I lie in a bed with a girl who just keeps talking, I stare into space, voiceless and with pretend emotions. I recall how I wasted my childhood by creating grown-up problems for myself. Maybe it would be better if I could act like a child, but that's never an answer; I know that by now. Everything is rather cold as winter approaches and as the sky turns greyer. People say that I'm sad. They say that I have to enjoy life more and be happy that I have "the girl of my dreams". I'm not sure that I can find any happiness from those things anymore. So I end up shrugging to them and gently giving them a fake, closed-mouth, smile before walking away to stare at the sky, again, like I do every evening.
The routine drags on and it becomes my only comfort as friends turn chaotic and detached, and unfriendly. The gazes of others and their looks trouble me. I can see how they see me. "Here comes that sad British boy again, what are we gonna' do?"
They give me looks of sympathy and try to pry some kind of secret from the person they could easily joke about. It's hard, unrelenting, somatic and forces me to think back with nostalgia of how easy and simple everything seemed to me. There used to be good and evil; right and wrong; the warm and shinning light and the bitter, chilled, darkness. Now there is only me and it.
Outcast I become, until I can outlast my own thoughts.
There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic.
― Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale .