I was becoming increasingly interested in people, though I showed a certain ambivalence to the word. It expressed a binary split composed of generalizations on one side and anonymity on the other. The former put forth an unfair grouping-together of all types, all the various kinds, sorts, and classes to which people belonged. The obscurity was instead a protection, a forgiving blanket masking our states of abnormality, giving us security, hiding what we didn't want revealed.
But being people, we were thrown into all of this without choice. We were, by nature, invalids, made weak not by our own devices but by the limits of our station and statute. Labels were limiting, distancing us from the potential of our oddities and whimsy. We were what we did, our contributions defining our import. Everything else was secondary.
So I invested myself in people, interested not only in stories, but in the combination of qualities brought forth in constant exchange, consistent conversations which brought to the surface not only interest but truth. I listened, I watched, I learned, changing myself in the process.
I looked out from behind my notebook, staring at the all-brilliant illumination of three o’clock.