I donít want to talk about it;
it feels intrusive to answer questions.
I donít want your commiserating pity;
it feels too condescending.
I donít want reassuring hugs:
they feel constrictive and confining.
I donít want you to protect me:
it makes me feel weak and pathetic.
I donít want conciliatory agreement;
it feels like you are humouring me.
I donít want your words of sympathy;
they sound fake and belittling.
I donít want you to be understanding;
there is no way you could ever know.
But there was once a little boy
who needed all those things above.
He didnít ever get them, though
and now he always feels that hunger:
to be kept safe, to be fixed, to be held,
for someone to know and understand
and intervene and make it all right.
I know that he still needs it all
but his needs and my wants
are working at cross purposes.
I think Iíd like a little rage;
maybe he would too.
07 Ė 16 Ė 13
A man talking sense to himself is no madder than a man talking nonsense to not himself.
Or just as mad.
So there you are.
Stark raving sane.
- Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead