"You know, sometimes I feel as if I really don't belong here."
"Don't we all?"
"Right, I guess you're right."
"Sorry, that was a dick move wasn't it."
"It's okay."
"What about it?"
"Hm?"
"Where or what is here?"
"I don't know, just the whole idea of existing and being, I think."
"Hm"
"I guess this is due to overly immensing myself with too many beautiful, intricate stories during such a limited period of time, but instead of them inspiring me, being the supposedly uplifting kind of stories they are, I felt a definitive opposite."
She let his words hung thick in the air. He always gets worked out talking about his thoughts and dreams out loud, she thought, and this knowledge somehow brought her comfort.
"It's like, I don't even know what this feeling is, can't even call it existential despair or dread or whatever it is Sartre wrote about. I just wish to be concise and definitive in determining the things I feel. Right now its a whirlwind of dust and faded lights and-"
"I guess I kind of envy the characters in Murakami's books, how lightly they determine that this, this is the moment, the inevitable plunge, the irreconcilable gap of whatever it is they are experiencing, the infinite inescapable uneasable pang of guilt, doomed to it recurring for the rest of their life, the edge of civilization before voyaging into a thick dense forest devoid of meaning, the last sound of humanity before drifting aimlessly, senselessly into the void beyond. Never to return."
"Instead of wondering for the rest of my life when will it will happen and how, or will it ever, or if its already done;
this,
is this?"