“And then I ask myself: Where is the wizened youth? Why has he gone away?” By Night In Chile, Roberto Bolaño.

We’re sitting at one of the old playgrounds in my neighborhood. It isn’t one that I’m familiar with, but it vaguely resembles one I played at as a child, just a couple of streets over. We’re seated on a bench, facing the sandpit and swings. 

“I don’t really know what to say to you.” I begin. 

“What?” I can feel him glance over. 

“I don’t have all of the right words.” 

“Oh.”

“I’m not sure I can be very honest on this first try, go-around—you know?”

He crosses his right leg over his left, “I’m not really sure.” 

—

“Hey.” 

“Hi.” 

“You know, sometimes I feel pretty shitty. Actually all of the time.” 

“Why?”

“Why?” she flicks some invisible dust off her fingernails.

“Yes, I’m interested in the reasons why you have this feeling,” he says. 

“Because I hate myself—that’s not true.” She continues, “I used to tell myself that a lot in high school.” 

“So did I,” he crosses and uncrosses his feet. “Many times.” 

“Really? I don’t believe you. I just lied.” She stands up. “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“I think I’m just feeling really upset. Sorry if I say anything else too.” 

“It’s good.” 

“I think I get in my head a lot of times, you know? Fuck, my father says that a lot, sorry— ‘You know.’ Filler words, I guess.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And I get in my head whenever I’ve got all this free time and when I don’t know what to do.” 

He nods. 

“Who am I supposed to talk to? No, that’s not the right question. But people are not commodities and sometimes they don’t have the energy to listen, and I’m not meant to talk all this much.” 

“Have you asked?”

“What?”

“Have you asked if they have the energy to listen to you?”

“No,” she turns to look at him. She looks down. “But I know many times they wouldn’t have the energy, but they’d still want to but not know that they didn’t want to, and yet, of course, they’d still try to have the energy and listen to me because we’re friends but then at some point it’d be too much and then they wouldn’t recognize me because I never used to do this before.” 

He listens. 

“I’m afraid of change.” 

“You can’t control that.”

“I know.” 

“Yeah.”

“I just don’t want people to realize that they weren’t being honest.”

“It’s so hard to know.” 

“You can’t.”

“Yeah.” 

“That’s the whole point.”