It's not arbitrary
The following notes I found on my phone. I wrote them after going out to an open-air concert in my town.
I went with two of my friends, but we joined a larger group of people that I did not know.
I removed some excerpts that were too personal or incoherent. It might be a bit all over the place.
(…)
Before long, I get asked the same question: “And what is it that you do?” Followed by the obnoxious addition, “What are you all about?”.
As if we are in some movie, like I am supposed to blurt out some deep lines that indicate I’m the main character that everyone should be fascinated by.
I give a short answer—nothing too captivating. There used to be a time when I tried really hard, but I’m past that now. The person who asked me the questions does not even wait for the answer and starts talking to someone else in the middle of my sentence.
In less than 10 seconds, I was archived. I feel the heat rise to my head, both anger and shame flushing my cheeks.
Luckily, the people around me are quite drunk and have already moved on to another subject.
(…)
“I think people need to be more passionate about things in their lives, you know? I hate people who are just bland. Like they go through life arbitrarily. But there's nothing there, you know?"
I open my mouth, “It’s not-..”
It’s not arbitrary.
It’s not arbitrary.
It’s not arbitrary.
(…)
My friends’ hair lights up around them, neon purple and green suits them.
We jump around on the music, laughing like madmen.
I shout in their ear how lovely life looks on them.
They sling their arms around me and squeeze me tight.
It is difficult to breathe with so much joy in your chest.
(…)
"So, is there any sport you like to do?” The person next to me asks.
Before I even get the time to answer, they go on, “I liked to play football and rugby; those were the cool days.” They trail off.
I feel where they want to go, so I give them exactly that: “How so, why did you quit?” I ask with a smile.
(…)
I look at a guy in the group, and I know he has been struggling. I can see him stare in the distance, his eyes hollow and far away. He reminds me of something.
I lean towards my friend on the left and whisper into their ear, “He reminds me of a swallow. Too fast to follow, skimming through the air. But he is on the ground now, and when speaking of swallows, that’s never a good sign.”
My friend calls them over, and I panic.
No, no, no, no, no.
Don’t tell them that, not now.
I cannot stop them.
He looks heartbroken as he listens to my words falling from their lips.
I feel fucking horrible.
(…)
“I’m a really closed-off person. Nobody knows anything about me.” They say.
Yet I know their motives; I know their wishes and dreams. I know where they went to school, who they don’t like in this group, and I know at least two secrets.
I know they want to be closed off. I know they want to believe they are unreadable.
I know they like to hear themselves talk and see those beliefs materialize through their words.
As if a play cannot exist if there is no audience, I’m there just to help them create that reality.
They asked my name five times in that conversation alone.
It’s not arbitrary.
It’s not arbitrary.
It’s not arbitrary.
(…)
“Thank you for being such a good friend. I’m sorry. I feel like I did not ask or talk to you a lot today.”
“Don’t worry.” I smile “I’m happy; there's nothing else to say.” I would not know what else to tell, anyway.
(…)
I’m not arbitrary.
I’m not arbitrary.
I’m not arbitrary.
I’m not arbitrary.
I’m not arbitrary.
I’m not arbitrary.