“You’re looking at me like I’m crazy.”

Silence.

I can’t even get a reaction.

“So. Well, am I crazy?”

Silence.

I’m wasting my time.

“I’m wasting my time.”

Silence.

I feel weird being in buildings sometimes. I don’t like the idea that the vast majority of my life is spent confined within the space of walls. I told an ex-boyfriend once that houses were a strange notion – a person (or multiple people, which strikes me as even odder) is regulated to keeping their life within a box structure. Lawns struck me as particularly amusing, as each box structure comes with their own rectangular plane of grass that serves no purpose whatsoever other than mowing on the weekends and, even weirder, can grow into a source of pride or competition for at least one residing member of the box. He told me that was the most idiotic thing he’s ever heard of. I agreed. I don’t think we were in-sync as to what was idiotic though.

I’m silent.

“Why are you using the term crazy?”

I’m silent.

“You’re free to leave anytime, you know. If you feel like this is doing nothing for you, then perhaps it is time to move on. This is about you.”

I’m silent.