We open the scene. Rachel Carson Dining Hall, my hands and fingers cradling this phone over a 7/8ths eaten salad of lettuce and mushroom and cauliflower and broccoli and edamame and blue cheese dressing. Micah's at the table 15, 20 feet away. When I will have finished my salad I'd like to go talk to him. Say hi. I won't, though.
And you'd wonder why I resist getting into these situations and I'd wonder too. I'd have been wondering. I would have wondered. All the sitcom episodes I've watched do not answer why I do not place myself into these fortuitous decisions. And I would answer to you and to me I would try to minimize uncertainty. I would try to guarantee the next hour, the next day. I would try to guarantee the next moment of silence for fear of doing the wrong thing. Of doing a bad thing. Of doing a thing I could not imagine. Of doing.
Adulthood ostensibly is not a trophy given to good children, and the obedient, and the predictable. In these three features I have embodied, sleep and wake, tired and alert. I am nothing, for I have given myself nothing, and I desire nothing, and I do nothing. This voice is little. It's all I have.