There are few places in my house where I can hide. Even my room is being persistently invaded by the “others” to an extent that I find it almost pointless to spend any time in there. Two places, however, have been found that offer some refuge. The bathroom, and . . . the other bathroom. In there I find silence and solitude—little found commodities. Unfortunately for me, silence is something I can barely endure in small quantities, and in large ones it is simply monstrous. Hence, I spend little time in solitude, pandering to my addiction to noise.
Noise. It surrounds me. Wrapping my mind in a delicious escape into nothingness. The Buddhists want to be absorbed into everything. I want to be absorbed into nothing. If there’s enough noise around me, I hear only peace—that calm soothing sound where I can sleep. And in sleep there is nothing. Nothing but my dreams. Dreams that are always borderline nightmares, but never quite bad enough to justify waking anyone up. So I lie there, with my walking stick in my hand, trying not to scream. Because I am not that strong. You don’t believe me? It’s called acting. You yourself have probably accused teenagers of doing it too much. We know better. We do it to survive. And you can’t survive “too much."
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