We are made up of the less quantifiable aspects of our character, the summation of our years and experience. And I still feel hopelessly ignorant—it’s the optimist in me that begs ignorance. Despite logic, reality, the past, this damn optimistic wellspring still bubbles in me and builds up grand illusions out of cardboard palaces. I am listening to albums better left in dust.
I tell myself I am better at good-byes. But I am not. I hate the finality of them. I hate the not knowing. And maybe that is my problem. My approach to people is too scientific for their liking. I want to understand how something works, why shouldn’t someone be the same? But herein lies the disconnect—most people are beyond understanding. Maybe it has something to do with the fluidity of our nature; that we aren’t constants or in a vacuum… We can hypothesize all we want, but hypotheses is all they will ever be, despite a battering of tests. We are all mad scientists.