(found under a pile of dry, crinkly leaves)
Something is bothering me. Something is really bothering me, Trixie, you know? I’m wondering about something, and I’m wondering and wondering about it, and I’m wondering if you’re wondering about it too. I’m hoping you’re wondering about it too.
I’m wondering if you think I’m real, Trixie. I know, I know, it’s a very specific thing to be wondering about, and I know it’s a very odd thing for someone like you to be wondering about, but I’m still wondering if you think I’m real.
I mean, I just don’t know anymore. I just don’t really know.
It seems like the world is full of people telling me what I am. They tell me that I’m too somber, and they tell me that I’m too loud. They tell me that I’m too humble and nice, and they tell me that I’m too vain and insecure.
But no matter what they tell me and no matter how sure of themselves they seem to be, nothing that they say seems to fit. That’s the issue. How can they be so sure of what they see in me, and how can I feel so – just, I don’t know, just so damned uncomfortable all the time? Because it gets to the point where it feels like I’m just lying to every single one of them, giving them the personality that they expect, that they want. And then I’m left here, and I haven’t even got a clue.
Oh, I just want to get away, Trixie. I just want to get away, and I just want to leave them all behind me. I have to, simply, simply have to get away from here, all these people and their ideas of what I am and what I am not.
But then what am I without them? How can I know who I can be without people letting me know who I can’t be, right? No man is an island, right? But then why do I feel so at peace when I’m alone in the ocean, bobbing up and down on the waves in my little dinghy where all their voices are drowned out by the water lapping lightly against the side of my leaky vessel.
So what am I to do, Trixie? I have all of this in my head, and I really just want you to tell me what I am to do.